Sound of Silence
by irisbud
Summary: Post graduation. Hermione arrives on Ron's doorstep nearly one year after her marriage to Severus Snape and refuses to speak to anyone. Someone must find a way to break her silence before it is too late.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Just what I need to do is start a new story when I still have Blood Stains to finish and revise and am currently revising one of my much older stories.  Ah well, the vicious plot kittens kept jumping up and down on my fingers, forcing me to type the very words you see here.  If it's horrible, blame them.

            Not exactly sure where this one is going (the plot kittens aren't speaking to me).  I may have to change the summary later.  Just play along, and everything will be fine.

            A/N II: I don't own Harry Potter.  I don't own Hogwarts.  I don't own Harry's friends.  JKR owns everything, and we can only borrow from her as long as we don't make any money at it. 

*           *           *

            He watched her as she lay still, her steady breathing the only sign of life in a body that had otherwise remained inert unless forced into motion for the greater part of two weeks.  Her quiet, unassuming form was a stark contrast to the busy patterns of the Chudley Cannons sheets she lay upon, the sheets that he refused to rid himself of.  It was much the same way as he had refused to rid himself of her.

            She had shown up on the doorstep of the Burrow, shivering and silent.  He had been alone when he answered the door, taking a year between school and the world to get things in order.  He had known what he wanted once.  When Hermione's life had not fit into his plans, the world he had hoped to create was torn apart.  He had been following the same routine he had followed for nearly a year now: wake up, eat, sleep, eat, shower, sleep, eat, lounge around, sleep.  Her interruption was entirely welcome.  For a moment, he even believed that she had come back to him.

            "Hermione!"  There had been a moment when excitement had taken hold and he had believed that she had come to her senses and left Him behind.  Her silence quickly shattered those quickly formed dreams.  He remembered toning his voice down to one that was filled more with concern than with enthusiasm and expectation.  "Hermione, what's wrong?"

            He remembered the way his heart had felt, as though it would surly burst when she looked up at him with those sad brown eyes.  There had been a moment when a shiver ran down his spine when he realized she was looking not so much at as though him.  Quickly, he had ushered her in.  Still, she had not spoken.

            He could remember now how he had made a pot of tea, always his mother's first attempt at fixing anything.  Hermione had sipped it slowly and with much difficulty, looking over the rim, eyes fixated at a distant spot on the wall.  Again, he had tried to extract the reason for her sudden appearance.  Again, he had met with no success.  

            He had taken the tea serving away from her and helped her from her chair.  "Come on, Hermione."  He ran his hand over her dirty, matted tresses.  "You look like you need a nice, warm bath."  He ran the warm water into the tub closest to his room, filling it with masses of shiny bubbles that popped and graced the air with a welcoming scent.  He had checked the temperature for her, and told her that he would be just outside if she needed him.  He left her standing by the bathtub, ashamed that he had wished to sit in the bathroom with her and wash the filth from her hair, wash the sadness from her soul.

            She had come out clad in a set of yellow cotton pajamas he had found in Ginny's room and laid on the counter next to the sink.  He remembered leading her to his bed and sitting her down upon it.  He could still feel the soft cotton of the towel rubbing against his fingers as he vigorously tried to extract the water from her long brown hair.  He had taken a brush and run through it, braiding it in one long plait so that there would not be too many knots when she awoke.  He had asked her if she wanted to rest, but even at that there had been no answer.

            The bedcovers had been pulled back, and he had settled her in between the sheets, tucking the soothing warmth of the comforter around her.  He had crept down the stairs to retrieve for her a glass of water in which he had placed a drop of his mother's favorite relaxation potion.  Though Ron had desperately wanted to talk to his friend, he knew that then she needed rest.  He had hoped that a bit of sleep would bring her about.  He wanted to know what had happened to her.

            It had been late into the evening when his mum had come home, asking him why the house was in such a state of cleanliness.  He had simply dropped out of life after leaving Hogwarts, lurking around the house doing nothing and answering to no one.  For a moment, though, he had felt as if it was crucial to impress Hermione.  He had to make her see that he was more worthy of her attentions than He had ever been.

            "It's nothing, mum.  I have a friend over is all."

            Mrs. Weasley had looked empirically around.  "I don't see anyone."  The fact was, there hadn't been anyone for a good long time now.  Ron had simply quit talking to Hermione after she had married Him against her red-headed friend's express wishes.  Harry had had better things to do than sit around and listen to the failure of one he had once called a friend.

            "She's in my room," he had said, not even thinking about the way his mother would take those words.

            She had exploded.  He remembered thinking vaguely about how Harry had once blown up his aunt quite by accident and wondered if his mum wasn't about to bring the same unfortunate fate upon herself.  "Ronald Weasley," the house had reverberated, dust motes falling from the ceiling which Ron had neglected to scour clean during his frenzied episode of tidying, "it isn't enough for you to vanish from society?  You have to be careless and irresponsible with girls as well?"

            Ron had blushed a peculiar shade of crimson, holding his hands before his face in mock surrender.  "No, mum.  I didn't mean it like that.  It's Hermione…"

            He remembered his mother clutching her hands to her chest.  "Hermione!  Here, in this house?  But what about…"

            "I don't know mum.  I haven't seen Him.  She hasn't spoken a word since she arrived.  She's sleeping now."

            His mother had promptly tromped up the stairs only to return moments later and floo for his father who was putting in yet another long day at the Ministry.  She asked her husband to contact Dumbledore at once, poking a sandwich at him with the fireplace tongs.  Ron had selfishly hoped it was corned beef.  Perhaps then he wouldn't have to eat the stuff.

            The hour was well past midnight by the time Dumbledore had actually arrived on the doorstep, looking unusually grave.  "Is she still here," he had asked Ron's mum, who had nodded and led the way to Ron's room where Hermione had continued to occupy his bed.  He had found himself wishing that he had chosen a better color scheme for the bedclothes, or at least a more mature one.

            His mum had stopped him from ascending the stairs with them, and he had stood rooted to the bottom step, his ear tuned to the floor above waiting for any sign of life.  He knew that he would recognize Hermione's voice the instant she spoke.  He felt his heart sink when his former headmaster returned down the staircase looking bleak and defeated.

            "Did she speak to you, Mr. Weasley?  Did she tell you what happened?"

            Ron had wished that he had better news to share with the man whom he had always so deeply respected, but all he could do was dumbly shake his head and disappoint him  "No sir.  She showed up.  I gave her tea and a bath and put her to bed.  She never said a word."

            He remembered the way Dumbledore had sighed, as though the weight of the world were upon him and Ron's admission had done nothing more than add to his crushing burden.  "Very well then, Mr. Weasley.  Do take care of her for me."

            There had been that surge of helplessness again, the same one he had felt when she had said "I do" at her wedding just eight months prior.  "How can I take care of her if I don't know what's wrong?"

            "Just comfort her Mr. Weasley.  Have patience, and I can hold out hope that she will be willing to talk."

            He could hold out hope, that meant…"You don't know if she's going to be all right, Sir?"

            "I have been told I have the makings of a poor Seer, Mr. Weasley."  That voice hadn't sounding quite so charming just then.  Ron had found himself sick with dread which Dumbledore had done nothing to abate and more to fuel.  With a soft wink and a sad smile, the wizened wizard had gone.

            Now, two weeks later there had been little change in Hermione's state.  He leaned over her as he did every morning, softly touching her shoulder.  She was clad today in pink terrycloth pajamas.  Every night, his mother dutifully supplied a clean outfit for Hermione to change into after her bath, laundering the ones that the girl left behind in the bathroom hamper.  It pained Ron to see that it seemed only her soul had left.  She was perfectly functional if he could push her too it.  Sometimes, he thought it would be easier if everything was gone.

            "Hermione," he whispered softly, trying to wake her as slowly and gently as was possible.  He remembered all of the times his mum had decided the only efficient way of rousing someone was to blanket the room in bright sunlight until they wept for mercy as their eyes burned away.  She stirred slightly beneath his hand, and he spoke her name again, noting how good it felt to roll the sound upon his lips.  It had been too long.  

            At last she opened her eyes a crack, as though she had decided to wake on her own.  As was usual, she didn't even acknowledge his presence, just stared off into a distant space that Ron was no longer a part of.  He put his hand gently behind her back and helped her to sit up, sliding her backwards on the bed so that she would be supported by the headboard.

            "Would you like your breakfast?"  He waited for an answer, but knew there would be none.  "I can go fetch it for you, if you'd like."  Still, she said nothing, and he had to turn away and head down the stairs to keep his heart from bursting straight out of his chest.  Everyday, he felt more woefully inadequate than he had the day before.  He always had to leave her after a few minutes, for if he stared too long his throat choked up and he broke down in silent tears.  What hurt him even more was the way she would continue staring into space through his displays of grief.  It was as though she cared about him so little he was nonexistent to her.

            Mrs. Weasley was busy with her wand over one of the counters as he slid into the kitchen and sat down at the scrubbed wooden table, sighing forlornly.

            "Nice of you to miss me," a girlish voice said scathingly.

            Ron looked up to see his sister standing in the doorway, eyes narrowed and hands on her hips.  Despite her nasty façade, there was a trace of a smile on the upturned corners of her lips.  "Ginny," he said trying to keep the dumb tone surprise always gave him out of his voice, "what are you doing here?"

            "Easter Break," she said, shrugging.  "Mum told me I might want to come home, and Professor Dumbledore insisted that I did.  I've only just arrived.  What's up?"

            Mrs. Weasley smiled at her youngest.  "Sit down for breakfast, Ginny."

            The red head sighed and did as she was told, looking expectantly towards the door as though she expected someone to come bursting through it at any time.  Ron didn't ask what that was about, and went back to brooding about the mess his life had become and the pain his heart harbored for Hermione.

            At last, Mrs. Weasley sat down, summoning four place settings and several dishes laden with food.  "Mum," Ron growled, "you know she likes it better up there."  The first time Mrs. Weasley had tried to serve Hermione a meal in the kitchen, things had gotten a bit edgy.  Hermione had remained the same placid self she had been ever since her arrival at the Burrow, but had planted her hand on the edge of the mattress and refused to be moved.  When Ron had forcibly carried her to the table at his mum's orders, the girl had simply stared off into space and refused to eat.  Only when he had resumed his routine of carrying a tray up to her to she regain her appetite.

            "That isn't for her, Ron," Mrs. Weasley said.  She turned her attention back to her plate though she, like Ginny kept stealing glances at the door.

            A few moments later there was a great hiss and a puff of smoke roiled from the fireplace grate.  Ron jumped up with the pitcher of water, ready to drown out any errant embers that had managed to escape onto the carpeting.  To his great surprise, the pile of ash and soot began coughing.  As the smoke cleared away, he was able to make out a human shape standing up and brushing itself off before him.  "Hullo, Ron," the figure said, straightening something on its face.  "It's very good to see you."

            Ron would have known that voice anywhere.  He smiled and rushed forwards, grasping his estranged best friend in a tremendous bear hug.  "Harry!  What are you doing here?"

            "Dumbledore called me away from Seeking for a bit.  Said I needed to come here for something."

            "Harry dear," Mrs. Weasley called out.  "Do come in.  Wash yourself off and then tuck in for some breakfast."  She looked the tall boy over as he headed through the room and seemed satisfied that he had been taking care of himself while playing Seeker for Oxfordshire.

            The four of them ate breakfast amiably.  "Nice meal, Mrs. Weasley," Harry complimented the woman who was the closest thing to a living mother he had ever had.

            "Thank you Harry dear."

            "Mum," Ginny interrupted, "why are we here?  Why did Dumbledore want Harry and I to come?"

            Ron answered that.  "Hermione," he said softly.  He tried to keep the pain out of his voice, but was only partially successful.  With all the practice he'd had at pretending not to grieve over the direction her life had taken and his had subsequently spun off in, he would have thought he would have been more accomplished at disseminating neutrality when he really felt animosity towards himself by now.

            "Hermione?"  Harry asked sharply.  "Here?"  "But what about…"

            "We haven't heard from Him," Mrs. Weasley said not without a touch of fury.

            "How long?" Ginny asked.

            "About two weeks now," said Ron.  "She just showed up one day.  She hasn't even spoken to anyone yet."

            Ginny leaned back and sighed.  "I guess that's a bit of a relief."

            "A bit of a relief?  What do you mean that's a bit of a relief?"  Ron's voice was angry and his eyes flashed dangerously.  "She hasn't spoken a word since she's been here, Ginny.  I don't see how that's in any way comforting."

            Ginny turned on her brother, daring him to continue his tirade against her.  "She's been missing for nearly a month now.  I thought something had happened to her."

            "Something did happen to her, you twit!  If she was fine, she would be talking."

            "Ron," Ginny said coolly, "I thought she had gotten killed."

            "What about Snape?"  Harry asked Ginny, leaning over the table so far it looked as though he would come crashing out of his chair.  "What does he have to say about all of this?"

            "He's been gone for even longer than that," Ginny explained.  "She took over his lessons for him just after Christmas.  All of the sudden, she was gone.  I ran to talk to Dumbledore straight away but he told me to let things sort themselves out.  He said he would take care of it."

            "And Snape hasn't been back since then?"

            "No."

            Harry scowled.  "I always knew he was a worthless git.  I told her that when she wanted me to give her my blessing for the whole affair.  I refused.  I never thought it was right, the two of them together.  She may love potions, but that doesn't mean that she has to love him.  I could never understand why she was oblivious to that fact that being Potions Master didn't make him a bloody extension of some concoction."

            "I know this has something to do with him," Ron growled.  "When I figure out what it is, he's going to wish he'd never laid a hand on Hermione, much less coerced her into marrying him."

            Mrs. Weasley stood up, banging her hand on the table, "Children, please!"  They all scowled at her as though she had demeaned them with her admonishment.  "Severus is missing, too.  Dumbledore hasn't heard anything from him for nearly four months now.  We were hoping he would show up here after Hermione did, or that she would be able to give us a clue as to his whereabouts, but so far neither of those things has happened.  I don't know why it has always been so hard for the three of you to remember that Severus Snape is on our side.  Hermione was the only one of you who was ever perceptive enough to understand that what someone was is not always the same as what someone is."

            "Yeah, mum," Ginny said now joining Harry and Ron's side, "look what good that's done her."

              "He never even acted like he cared about her," Ron said, hands clasped behind his back as he started pacing the room.  

            "Love is different for different people," Mrs. Weasley told her son softly, rising from the tables and heading out to the garden with a book and a pitcher of tea.

            "How can you call what they had love?  All they ever did was fight and be horrible to each other?"

            Harry couldn't help but smirk slightly.  He winked at Ginny, breaking the seriousness of the mood for a moment.  Harry knew his friend had died inside the night Hermione had announced to the two of them that she would be marrying Severus Snape at the end of their seventh year at Hogwarts.  Ron had loved Hermione for as long as Harry could remember, and has always shown his love for her in the way he was now describing as scandalous.

            "We need to find out what happened," said Ginny.  "It doesn't matter that we all hate Snape, she doesn't, or at least the last time I spoke to her she didn't."

            "I do hate him," Ron agreed as though that was the only part of Ginny's statement that had any relevance to the current situation.

            "Me too," Harry agreed, though he had a sneaking suspicion that Ron's hatred of their former professor sprung from a more deep and painful place than his own ever could.  "Now, more than ever since he might have hurt Hermione."

            Ron looked daggers in Harry's direction.  "_Might_ have?"

            Ginny shook her head.  "Let me take her breakfast up to her alone.  Maybe she just needs a little girl talk.  Maybe being around you is too much for her, Ron."  

            "Fine," Ron snarled, turning around and sending all of the dirty dishes crashing broken to the sink with a wave of his wand.  "Do what ever you want.  I'm sure she will talk to _you_.  She'll probably talk to all of you and never say a word to me."

            Harry shooed Ginny off, indicating that he would take care of Ron's lousy mood.  "Come on, mate," Harry said, "don't be so hard on her.  She and Hermione have been friends almost as long as you and Hermione have."

            "I know," Ron said shortly.

            "She's just trying to help, Ron.  She wants to see Hermione get better as much as you do."

            "Fine, Harry, whatever."

            Harry moved to turn away but then thought better of it.  "I'm not going to let you do this to yourself this time, Ron.  I won't stand by and let you self-destruct again."

            "Like you could have stopped me."

            "I could have tried.  I just let you last time.  I just walked away.  That made it sort of hard for me to call you my friend.  Come to think of it, it made it sort of hard for me to call myself a Gryffindor.  Loyalty and all, you know."

            Ron stood there silent for a moment.  "It's hard, Harry, having her here.  It brings up all of the old memories in a way that I never thought was possible.  You think that you've moved on, you think that the ache is dull and meaningless until you're confronted with the source.  Then it all falls apart on you again."

            "You did everything you could to stop her…"

            "I told her not to do it."

            "It wasn't up to you, in the end."

            "She wouldn't listen to me.  She just stared at me, the way she does now.  Blank, like there's nothing there."

            "She'd made up her mind.  You know what she's like better than anyone.  Remember SPEW?"  There was a faint trace of a smile around Harry's eyes.  "Come on, mate.  She married Snape on her own.  It's not like you arranged it."

            Ron turned to Harry with haunted eyes.  "Harry," he said, voicing aloud the thought that had been tearing him apart since the exchange of vows that had taken Hermione away from him forever, "what if I could have stopped it?"

            Harry snorted.  "You would have done what, Ron?  Objected?  I'd like to see what she would have transfigured you into if you would have tried."

            "No," Ron said, feeling that his friend was missing the point entirely.  "What if she could have married someone else?  What if someone else would have asked her first?  What if I had just told her I loved her?"

            Harry sighed deeply, running his hands through his messy black hair.  "I don't know, mate.  You can't dwell on might have beens.  You couldn't have known it would come down to this."

            "If I had actually belonged in Gryffindor, it wouldn't have come down to this.  But I was too chicken, too stupid.  Too afraid she would say no, I was."

            "Ron," Harry said, trying to waylay his friend from the track of destruction he was currently riding on, "we were just kids."

            "It was only a year ago, Harry."

            "Did you tell her now?"

            Ron looked at him as though he had sprouted three heads.  "Of course I didn't tell her now.  She's married to that spawn of darkness now.  What am I supposed to say?  'Gee, Hermione, I wish you wouldn't have married old Snapey, cause I really love you.'  Give me a break."

            "She came to you, didn't she?  She could have come to me, or gone to her parents, or even run to Victor Krum.  She _chose_ _you_, though."

            "She knew I was the only git sitting around with nothing to do since she broke my heart."

            Harry rolled his eyes.  "Fine, then don't tell her.  This might be your last chance, but you can waste it too, if you want.  Just let it go.  When she comes out of it, maybe then she'll go back to Snape without even having any reason to think twice about it.  Then you can go back to brooding and moping and wondering what might have been if you'd just been able to pluck up a little bit of courage to tell your best friend that you've loved her all along."

            Ron snorted.  "Like it's that easy."

            Harry shrugged, "sure it is.  What have you got to lose now, mate?  When we were in school she might have laughed at you, or run away, or refused to ever speak to you again.  Now, you don't ever talk to her anymore anyway.  If it blows up in your face you can just go back to status quo.  It's not like a little heartache is going to interfere with the ambitious lifestyle you've chosen for yourself."

            "Sod off, Harry."  Ron brightened a bit.  "If it's so easy, then why don't you do it right now?"

            "Ron, I don't love Hermione.  She's my friend is all.  You know that."

            "Not Hermione, Harry.  Ginny.  I know you love Ginny.  I know how it killed you when she started flirting with every bloke in the school, and even worse when she actually started dating some of them."  When Harry said nothing, Ron persisted, "Come on mate, you're a professional seeker and the Boy Who Lived for Merlin's sake!  You must have girls crawling all over you."

            "I do not," Harry said indignantly.

            "Then tell her, if it's so easy."  He paused a moment.  "I knew it wasn't."

            "Fine," Harry said, exasperated, "I will.  Later."

            "Oh no," said Ron.  "Now is good.  Now is very, very good.  Here she comes.  Go on then, Harry."

            Harry turned crimson then blanched slightly.  "Uh, Ginny," he stammered.  "I wanted to tell you something.  You see...well, it's just that…Uh, I wanted you to know that well…we've always been friendsandumIloveyou."  He said the last very rapidly, letting it all out in one giant breath of sound.

            She looked at him quizzically, then smiled.  "That's nice, Harry."  She kissed him softly on the cheek, much the way an aunt would, her face burning slightly red.  She looked over to Ron and motioned for him to join her.  "Come upstairs you two."

            "Does Hermione want to talk," Ron asked eagerly leaping from the chair he had sat back down in and banging his knee severely on the underside of the table.  "Bloody hell!"

            "No," Ginny said, rushing up the stairs with the two boys in tow.  "She doesn't want to talk, but I gave her a pen and some parchment."

            "So she wants to write," Harry concluded thickly.

            "Genius," Ginny said, rolling her eyes.  " I thought maybe she would be more comfortable that way.  She always liked written words better than people."

            "Except Snape," Ron glowered, trying his best to put a smile on his face.  This time, he promised himself, he would be there for Hermione.

*           *           *

            _She could see them all staring down at her as though she were some sort of creature on exhibit.  They wanted her to talk to them.  They wanted her to tell them why she was here._

_            She would not._

_            She could see it in Ginny's eyes, the pity.  Pity was worse than loathing._

            _Harry's eyes burned with concern and anger.  She would not fuel his rage._

_            Ron's eyes were the worst.  Love. She couldn't deal with love.  She had never had to deal with love.  She looked off into space, not wanting to look directly away, for then he would have known that she had seen him._

_            Ginny urged her to write with the lavender quill she now held in her hand.  It seemed like ages since she had held a quill.  It was like a piece of her from another time, from another life.  She twirled it slowly in her fingers, contemplating.  Lavender was her least favorite color.  These days, she tended to prefer black._

_At least, that's what she told herself._

_Harry moved the parchment about as though she were half-blind and he was trying to make her see it.  Carefully, she moved her gaze away slowly so that they would not think the action was deliberate.  If she had learned anything from the supplier of her surname, it was the art of subtlety._

"I thought you said she was going to write," she heard Ron say in a voice that sounded both impatient and hurt.  She pretended not to hear him.

_She could imagine Ginny's shrug though the spot she had fixated upon prevented her from seeing the movement.  "I must have misunderstood."_

_"She talked to you?"  Ron again.  "I knew she would talk to _you_."  Wounded, like always._

_"No."  Ginny this time.  "She just looked like she was there for a second.  I guess I was wrong."_

_No, not wrong.  She had just let herself slip a bit was all.  Calm.  Collected.  She breathed deeply and evenly, counting to herself.  It would be easy enough to elicit damage control._

_"I don't think she's going to be writing."  She could hear the frown in Ron's voice now.  She heard a set of footsteps move away and knew it was him._

_"Sorry," Ginny said in a choked voice.  "I just thought…" _

_"Don't worry about it."  Interruption had always been one of Harry's fortes._

_"What you said before, did you mean it?"_

_"Yes, I mean, I guess I did."_

_"What do you mean you guess?"  She could hear Ginny's eyes narrowing._

_"I meant it."  Harry was sweating.  She could tell by the strain in his voice._

_Suddenly there was silence except for a slightly wet sound.  She wanted desperately to look, wanted to see that love was tangible and real, but then they would know for certain that she was indeed there.  She wasn't ready for that yet._

_"Why now?"  Ginny's voice was happier now.  Free.  She had felt that way once, long ago.  It, like the quill, seemed like a piece of another lifetime._

_"Because he needs to say it too."_

_She didn't like the sound of that and had to fight herself from bristling.  She knew they were still watching, still noticing.  She didn't so much as blink.  She had become a master of self-control._

_"Could I talk to her alone for a minute?"  Harry again.  She heard Ginny's footsteps fall away.  Almost alone._

_"Hermione, can you hear me?"  Nothing.  This was the hardest, when they actually spoke to her.  Then she couldn't look away.  She had to fixate, had to concentrate on being a non-entity._

_"Hermione, please, you can talk to me."  Of course she could.  She just didn't want to, didn't see any reason to.  Not yet, at least._

_She knew he would inevitably try again.  The Boy Who Lived.  The Boy Who Could Fix Everything.  The Boy Who Was A Hero.  He did not disappoint her.  "Come on, Hermione.  I know you're in there."_

_Did he really?  No, she decided.  He hoped, but did not know.  No one could know._

_"Please, Hermione.  You can tell us.  We want to help you."_

_Of course they did.  But they also wanted to hurt him.  They didn't understand.  They had never understood.  _

_She heard a rustle as he knelt down beside her and took her hand in his.  Limp.  He began massaging it in tiny circles.  Unresponsive._

_"Dammit, Hermione, stop this bloody nonsense!"  He dropped her hand.  He was swearing now, pacing the room.  The footsteps came near and then retreated.  Near and then retreated.  He walked first with his heels then with his toes.  She could hear the way he stepped._

_Suddenly, he stopped.  Breathe.  "He loves you."  No.  Stop.  She couldn't take it.  Stop.  Now._

_"Ron, he loves you, Hermione."  No need to repeat it.  It hurt too much.  She was going to react.  She could feel her vital signs rising, feel her blood pumping.  She didn't want to know.  She couldn't deal with any more right now._

_"He wants to tell you, but he can't."  It was better that way.  She shut her eyes once to regain composure and hoped he hadn't noticed._

_"Wouldn't it be better that way, Hermione?  Wouldn't you be better off with him?"  No way to tell, now.  No way to find out.  Dreams were born, and then they died.  She had sent many wishes on their way.  That was another time._

_"You love him too, Hermione."  No she didn't.  Dreams were born and then they died.  She was different, now.  Somehow she had to be.  Death was finite, even for a dream.  There was no spell to reverse death.  She had buried her dreams with her childhood._

_"He needs you, Hermione."  Did anyone really need anyone?  She had done fine on her own.  Dreams, again.  Dreams of utopia.  Dreams of euphoria.  Dreams that could never be.  Dreams that would die outside of the mind, away from the heart.  Her mind was numb and her heart was cold.  There was no room for dreams._

_"You could be together Hermione."  No.  that would never be possible again.  She had hurt him enough.  He had hurt her enough. She had made a promise.  He had turned away.  She had let him go.  Unity was a contract and love a construct.  He was a dream from the hours just before the dawn.  He had slipped away like the early morning mist.  Dreams fade._

_"Think about it Hermione."  She would not.  Anything else, but not that.  She pushed it away, locked it up with the keys to her soul.  Dim now, because there were no more dreams.  Tired now, because she had grown cold.  But what of the dreamer?_

_"You could have gone anywhere."  No.  She couldn't run anymore.  Couldn't last any longer.  The fire in her heart had long since burned away to embers and put itself out.  There was nothing left._

_"If you don't love him, then why are you here?"  She heard him move away and closed her eyes heavily trying not to let the words permeate her consciousness.  _

_There was one part of her that still refused to die._

_*           *           *_


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks to all who reviewed.

**Krysalys73:** Thank you again for your kind reviews.  I'm always so happy to see your name down as the reviewer!  Thanks for the offer, but I think I might want to hold off on the stick for a while.

**Suicide-greeting:** I'm getting a clearer idea on that…Thanks for adding me to your author alert list!

**Lesa:** As I said above, a better idea on the direction.  Confession: none of my stories have any direction when they start.  I don't think I could write them if they did.

**F75:** Thank you!  Glad you're reading my other one too!

**BuckNC**: We shall see, we shall see.  Thanks for adding me to your Author Alert list!

A/N II: I still own nothing.  I bet that was surprising.

Now, on with the story…

*           *           *

            Ron sat at the kitchen table that afternoon, moping at the abysmal failure his efforts to speak to Hermione had come to.  Harry and Ginny had fared no better and were now in the living room listening to the Wizard's Wireless and talking amiably to each other.  Ron thought of Hermione lying alone and silent in his bed and wished for her company, if only for a moment.

            It had been nearly a year since the two of them had spoken.  There hadn't been much to say after she told him she was going to be marrying their hated Potions Master.  He had laughed glibly at first, thinking she was making some sorry, bookish attempt at a joke.  His mirth had quickly subsided when he understood the seriousness of her intent.

            He had gone to the wedding like a dutiful friend, but his face had been somber and his eyes cold and dead when he had met her in the receiving line.  She seemed a bit put off by his attitude which served only to annoy him.  He had wondered why she would expect anything else.  The virtue of time had led him at last to see what he previously could not.  He thought of her time turner briefly and sighed.  Too bad those days were over.

            He remembered how he had naively thought that everything would return to the way it had been if he stubbornly protested the unity of Hermione and Severus.  Now it seemed so foolish.  Instead of having his wish granted, he had lost his friends and let his life grind to a screeching halt.  He knew now he should have congratulated her and offered his support, though he still would have rather given his condolences.  He had let matters get out of hand.

            Now he was sitting here with his head in his hands and nothing to do but wait until she wanted to share her burden with him.  He wondered, not for the first time, if she ever would given the way he had treated her the last time she had come to him for support and help.  He wondered why she was here in the first place.  He was the last person that even himself would have thought to come to for sympathy after his performance at her wedding. 

            He sighed, pouring himself a spot of vodka, just enough to cover the bottom of the glass and barely enough to taste.  Anymore would have him laughing like a fool and red in the face.  He swirled it around with the ice and orange juice and poured it over his tongue, blanching a bit at the bitter taste.  He would never get used to it, and didn't think he wanted to.  He liked the feelings it gave him too much to actually allow himself to enjoy it the way his former friends so carelessly did and drown away his mounting sorrows.  He had ruined everything else in his sorry life over the past year.  That would have been just another step everyone else would have expected him to take.  

            For Ron, however, that was one step too far.

*           *           *

            _"Hermione?"  Great, visitors again.  It had been easier when it had just been Ron and his parents.  It was easier to pretend, easier to hide inside of herself.  Then, Ron had been the hardest but the pain in her heart every time her eyes feel upon him was enough to hold her in check.  Now there were Harry and Ginny._

_            She heard the sound of chair legs scraping across the wooden floor and tried not to cringe.  The heavy settling of a body coming to rest.  The slight groan of the wood as Ginny made herself comfortable.  A long visit.  She fought the almost girlish urge to roll her eyes.  _

_            Perhaps there was hope for her yet._

_            "I could read to you if you would like."  No.  That meant fervent boredom and having to fight the urge to give corrections for sloppy diction and improper pronunciation.  Besides the fact that she had given up books._

            _She heard the rustle of pages and tried not to sigh.  Another long afternoon.  Somehow, the days passed faster when they only bothered her with the lunch tray.  They would beat her down and drag the words from her simply by virtue of their constant watch over her.  It had been less than two hours since Harry had left her._

_            "June 15th, 1997:  I had a devil of a time forcing myself to wear the hideous taffeta gown that Hermione insisted upon for me, but I felt that I had to.  Lavender and Parvati refused point blank to be in her wedding, and Ron and Harry would make bloody awful bridesmaids.  I tried not to complain too much, since I was the only one."  That hadn't bothered her, Ginny being her only bridesmaid.  Severus had had no one until Dumbledore had forced Professor Vector, who had stood nervously adjusting his robes the entire time.  She still thought he had done it more out of kindness for her than he had out of liking for Severus._

_            "The wedding went okay.  It was a bit austere, but I expected that from the practice.  It never seemed happy, though.  It was a grotesque adaptation of what I believed love was supposed to be.  They were so grim as they exchanged their vows, so perfunctory as they kissed.  I don't think Hermione ever smiled, and I don't think Snape ever stopped scowling."  Fair assessment.  Keen observation.  Truth, if a little stretched.  There were many kinds of love.  She wondered if Ginny would understand that.  She wasn't going to ask._

_            "Ron and Harry were complete gits at the reception.  Ron shook hands with Hermione like she was some curmudgeonly old neighbor he had met only once in his life, and Harry completely passed over Snape except to stare him down and look at his shoes as though he wanted nothing more than to spit on them."  She hadn't missed the subtleties there, either.  Once those things had hurt her but now she could hardly feel them against the aching pain that had become her life._

_            "I tried to be cheery through the whole thing, but it was one of the hardest things I have ever done.  I never wanted to see her with someone like him.  He doesn't even make her happy.  He doesn't know how to smile himself, so how could he ever presume to make her?  Damn potions anyway!"  Something stirred for just a moment.  It would have been challenge if it hadn't been so tired and defeated all ready.  She used to love potions.  She had loved them enough to teach them.  In another time.  In another place._

_            "I don't see whatever it is Hermione does, but I do know one thing.  If he hurts her, I'll go to the ends of the earth to kill him."  Of course she couldn't see.  There were many kinds of love.  Love was like potions.  It was subtle and exact.  You had to know just how and when to stir it.  It need to be heated properly and vialed with care. Like potions, it also had its uses.  She had never been so careless with potions as she had with her own heart.  She did not doubt that Ginny would kill Severus.  She wouldn't wait for an explanation.  She wouldn't worry herself over the matter.  The man had been unreachable since Christmas._

_            "Hermione, I _will _kill him."  She was right.  At least that was one touch she hadn't lost._

_            "When I find him, he'll wish that I hadn't."  You wont find him.  She had helped to make sure of that.  No one would find him until it was time.  Not even her.  She tried not to let her heart rate increase._

_            "I just wish you would tell me what he did."  There were many kinds of love.  It wasn't so much what he ever did as what he never would do._

_            "Please, Hermione, tell me."  Could different kinds of love coexist?  Maybe.  It was hard.  Here she was, proof of that theorem.  Too stubborn to let him be, too hopeful to give up.  _

_            That was why some dreams deserved to die.  They caused too much suffering to be allowed to live._

_            She heard a heavy sigh and listened as her friend's diary closed, feeling a soft gust of air from between it's pages.  She would have thought Ginny would have developed an aversion to journaling._

_            The chair was moving back against the wall it had come from now.  Steps again, and she was gone._

_            Had she wanted to make her angry?_

_            Had she wanted to make her sad?_

_            Or had she simply wanted to make her think?_

_            She focused her eyes on the room around her, stretching into a more comfortable position and fluffing her pillow._

_            Whatever her intent, Ginny had managed to make her confused._

_            For a moment, she felt as though she were alive again. _

_*           *           *_

            He didn't want to do this.  Try as he might, he couldn't remember anything he had ever wanted to partake in less, except maybe having to sit through the horrific travesty that was her wedding.

            Harry stood by him now, watching his every move.  Damn him, anyway.  He had said how hard it was for him to talk to Hermione.  Ron wondered why he couldn't have taken that into account when he insisted that the Weasley boy take his turn at talking to their oldest friend.  Even his unflappable sister had been choking back something that sounded like tears when she had finished her session with Hermione.

            He had put it off for as long as he could, not even having really bothered to look at her all day aside from rousing her from sleep and a brief moment when he, Ginny and Harry had all simultaneously paid her a visit.  The other two had paid their individual respects to the inert parody of what had once been the girl he adored and he had let them take over his duties as her nursemaid, happy for a reprieve of the only, and yet most draining he had ever experienced, task that he had in his life.  Today, he had pursued drinking a weak screwdriver and having a long nap in the armchair by the window.  Depression had combined with depressants and the incongruous warm rays of the afternoon sun had helped him to sleep off what would have otherwise become another irreversible slide into the oblivion of nonexistence.

            Since Hermione had come, it had pained him to see that the only understanding ally he had in his attempt to fade away from life was one who had entered the extreme of the condition he wished to achieve in what he was certain was an unwitting manner.  She was never one to bend.  Perhaps that was why she seemed to have broken.

            He sighed heavily, wishing that he could escape from his duty with the ease that the breath escaped from his lips.  Shutting his eyes to blank out the pain for a moment, he ran his hand through his thick pate of red hair, not caring that the gesture had undoubtedly left it standing on end.  He had now seen her at her very worst.  He doubted there was enough of her left to care about such a fickle thing as his appearance.  For her, it would have been a triviality even in a perfect state.

            "Come on mate, you have to do it sooner or later."  Harry was looking at him now with more concern than he had ever seen.  He might have had to go in there, but he did not have to share the burden of his soul with her.  To him, it seemed that she either had enough on her mind already, or that there wasn't enough of her there to mind.  Either way, it seemed like a brutal thing to say to the girl.

            He smiled wanly at Harry and walked into the room, shutting the door behind him and satisfying himself with the extra click of the lock.  He would speak quietly so that his friend outside could not hear the words he said and would never know if he had confessed to Hermione or not.  He moved to sit beside her bed and found to his surprise that she had not fallen back upon the pillows but was still sitting up with her head resting against the wall.

            "Did you want something," he asked nervously, knowing she would not answer.

            Her hair left large damp spots where it touched her cloth pajamas, and he moved to push it back away from her shoulders.  Deftly, he walked over to the dresser and lifted the brush he had been using ever since Hermione's arrival to detangle her hair before tucking her in for sleep.  Placing one arm beneath the crook in her knees and one beneath her arms, he lifted her and moved her forward.  She was little more than deadweight.

            After getting his friend situated, he scooted in behind her and began brushing her long hair, cursing Ginny, who had helped the older girl to bed, for towel drying the frizzy mass without bothering to brush through it.  Already, little pieces were starting to stick up everywhere.  

            At first, he did nothing but run the brush through her tresses with long, even strokes, thinking back to the times they had shared at Hogwarts.  At some point, he began sharing his memoirs aloud with her, not knowing if she could hear him.  He wondered if the words were reaching her mind.  He wondered if his thoughts were touching her heart.  The one-sided conversation was so odd it made it unbearable to him.  Words were a connection between two hearts and with only one person doing the talking it was a tenuous link at best.

            He mused that perhaps this made him as uncomfortable as seeing the girl he loved in such pain.  There was no acknowledgement from her as he spoke.  Never were his words interrupted by the little sounds and grunts of attention that he had always before paid no mind to.  He tried to tell her a funny story, but without her laughter the humor died quickly away.  A slight bit of sorrow became dull and meaningless when her eyes were so glazed and apathetic.  He might as well have talked to the golden snitches on his bed sheet.

            Finished with all of the tangles, he began braiding her hair into the long plait that he had customarily done ever since her unexpected arrival at the Burrow two weeks ago.  He wondered what she would have thought of wearing her hair like that and weakly asked her.  Of course there was no answer.

            Moving out from behind her, he scooted her forward a bit more and then helped her to slowly lean back, fluffing out her pillow and giving the sheets an airy flip before he tucked them in around her.  He was careful not to make it too tight, lest she should want to stir sometime in the night.

            "Where did you go, 'Mione?"  His voice sounded only faintly like his own and he scorned himself for such a display of pain when her plight was so obviously superior to his own.  He could hear the tears choking his voice.  "What happened to you?"

            He listened with all his might for an answer but the only sound was the soft brushing of fabric as the sheet rose and fell with each breath she took.  He wondered if she would have rather been dead.

            He took her soft hand in his, holding it warmly for uncountable minutes.  Somehow, he couldn't help but blame himself for all that had happened to her.  If only he had been brave enough to face the fear that had beaten him down every time. When he had faced the bogarts, it should have been the face of Hermione Granger he had seen rather than the giant spiders.  After all, he would have rather faced Aragog and his children a thousand times before having to pluck up the courage to tell her what he had always wanted to and never could.

            He stared down at her again.  Her eyes were closed now, her lower lip hanging slightly open as though she were lost deep in a dreamless sleep.  He brushed a stray hair away from her face, and softly ran his finger across her forehead.  It was cool as ice and she did not so much as flinch.

            Carefully, he leaned forward and touched his lips to her forehead, never letting go of the tiny limp hand he held in his own.  He pulled back slowly and stared down at her again, his heart feeling heavier and more filled with grief than it ever had in his entire life.

            "It should have been me instead," he wept softly.  "Gods, Hermione, If only I'd ever been able to tell you how I love you."  He stopped for breath and looked upon her sleeping facing.  There was no hint of life other than the soft sound of her breathing.

            "Merlin help me," he whispered, taking her in for a moment before dropping his head onto her sleeping hand, "I wish it were me instead."

*           *           *


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Really short chapter this time, but I wanted to go ahead and post as I find feedback both inspiring and helpful.  Ron isn't speaking to me right now, so I thought I would just let you in on a bit of Hermione' thinking.

Thanks to all who reviewed since last post: BuckNC, krysalys73, Lily Michelle, Katrina Starr, Rubberduckie713, and the-love-of-ron.

A/N II: It's not mine, but that's okay as long as I can play with it anyway.

*           *           *

            _The blanket was gone.  She could feel the cold creeping through to her very core.  Her skin felt much like her soul._

_            Carefully, she listened for the sounds of life.  It wouldn't do for her to be groping about for lost bedclothes if they were to come in to attend to her.  She wouldn't want them to think their presence had made her in any way alert._

_            There was someone there.  Breathing, but not the breath of an idle watcher.  The inhalations were heavier, deeper.  The rate was slower.  She could feel it._

_            Instantly, she started to freeze and fought the reflex with every ounce of her.  If she tensed, they would know there was someone there, someone inside.  That would lead only to more questions.  Constant vigilance, constant interrogation.  They would wear her down and they would draw her out.  They would prey upon her weakness were she foolish enough to show them any.  She remained steady and silent.  A rock._

_            Slowly, she opened her her eyes just enough to peer through her lashes.  Subtlety.  Once, a long time ago, she had been as naive and ordinary as they.  She would have never noticed the gesture when she was one of them.  It wouldn't have been lost on her now._

_            No one there.  Thanks to the angle her neck had achieved during sleep, she would have been able to make out anyone in the room, though they would have appeared thick and hazy.  She had no audience._

_            Suddenly, she felt movement next to her.  She panicked slightly, wondering if they had seen, if they knew.  The shifting stopped, and she could feel the mattress sinking lower on the left side between herself and the wall.  She could feel warmth now._

_            She had to count.  There was someone in the bed with her.  Could they not leave her be?  Was it not obvious that she desired nothing but peace?  She fought the urge to flinch as a limb was carelessly thrust across her stomach._

_            They had her blanket.  She was cold and she wanted it so desperately, needed it so desperately.  It divided her world from reality and she felt naked and exposed without it.  She had used its comforting warmth to lull herself to sleep as Ron had sat persistently by her side the night before.  She knew she could not bear his words, so she had turned inside of herself.  The warmth had made her sleepy and the nerves had taxed her to her limit.  She had been able to escape._

_            Ron.  She froze this time, hoping that the one sharing her bed would remain oblivious to her unintentional display of consciousness.  It was him with her.  She knew.  Breathe.  Breathe.  She wanted to scream for him to get out, to leave her be, to let go of his past, but she would not._

_            The time was not right.  Not yet._

_            He stirred again, and she practiced the mind control methods Severus had worked on with her.  She had to believe she was gone.  She had to so thoroughly convince herself that she would be able to convince them.  It was only fair.  It was the only way._

_             She felt him sit up, tossing the cover away.  She was nothing.  She was no one._

_            She could feel his eyes upon her, almost see his face register his actions in horror.  She couldn't care.  There was nothing let to care with._

_            She felt him scramble to the foot of the bed, trying to slink out without brushing against her, trying not to rouse her.  She would not be awakened.  Not today._

_            The blanket was falling over her again.  She felt him brush her forehead with his lips.  There were tears on his face.  She could feel them on her skin now after he had moved away._

_            He was crying for her._

_            He was crying for himself._

_            The door squeaked and she heard the click of the latch as it settled into its frame.  Sigh now.  Breathe now.  Look now._

_            Alone again._

_            She touched the side of the bed where he had just departed from.  Still warm._

_            She cursed herself for sentiment._

_            Human still._

_            Alive still._

_            The residue from his tears mixed with her own._

*           *           *


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Longer chapter this time, sorry the last was so short but I thought I felt writer's block coming on and was worried that it would be a while before I posted again.

Thanks to reviewers from the last chapter: krysalys73, BuckNC, the-love-of-ron, and Lily Michelle.  You guys are awesome!

A/N II: I don't own it so don't worry about it

*           *           *

"Where were you last night?"  Harry looked at Ron skeptically and smirked.  "I left the light on until three o'clock this morning, but you never came down here."  The two were sharing the living room for the duration of Harry's stay, seeing as Hermione had unequivocally taken over Ron's bedroom.

            "I feel asleep talking to her."  There was some degree of truth to that, and he hoped his friend would simply let it go.  He stared daggers at Harry, as though daring him to say anything further.

            Harry raised his eyebrows slightly but let the subject drop.  "You must have one hell of a backache, sitting in the chair all night."

            Ron ignored him, flopping down on the shabby blue sofa that some old quilts had been spread over for the past two weeks.  He beat on the lumpy old pillow he had procured for himself and sighed, sinking his head down in between the worst of its fibrous masses.

            "Did she talk to you?"

            Ron looked at his old friend scathingly.  "What do you think, Harry?"

            "Well, I thought maybe you told her."

            "I did."  At least that much was the truth.  However unwittingly, his confession had seemed to seep from him.  He felt a flood of emotion in the pit of his stomach as he thought about it and fought the urge not to be sick.  Heat rose in his cheeks as he remembered his confession to her the night before.  She had looked so heart-wrenchingly faded, lying there as though she were nothing more than a lump of substance, stripped of all the character that had once made her shine.  He felt the lump rising in his throat again and pushed it back.  He had failed yet again.  The flicker of hope that love could heal all things had faded into the internal darkness that had become his jailer.  His love had not healed Hermione.

            Harry looked crestfallen, as though he too had believed in the fairy tale notion that Ron's confession of devotion would thaw even the deepest freeze upon the more metaphysical elements of Hermione's humanity.  "Oh," was all he was able to say.  Ron smiled weakly at him, wondering what he had come to that he felt a weak pleasure in their shared pain.

            Sighing, he closed his eyes, carefully stretching his long body around the hard spots in the couch where the springs were trying their best to come poking through.  He had slept like the dead, lying next to Hermione but still he could not feel rested.  If anything, he felt more weary.  He was tired deep down in his very soul.  He felt as though he could sleep for a thousand years.  Perhaps then the pain in his heart would be gone.

            He heard his sister come pattering down the stairs, still clad in her slippers he supposed.  Harry greeted her warmly, and Ron opened his eyes, gazing across the room at the couple, feeling a well of something indescribable that reeked of anger and sadness and seemed to settle in his very core.  He shut his eyes again.  Reality was too much to bear.

            "Ron," Ginny whispered, touching him on the shoulder much the same way he did when he wanted to wake Hermione.  "Ron, I know you're awake.  I saw you looking when I kissed Harry."

            "Ginny, please," he said trying to sound irritated but succeeding only in sounding as though he had exhausted whatever supply of hope and happiness he had once had.  "Please," he repeated, "leave me alone."  He wanted to be alone again more than he ever had in all his life.  For nearly a year, he had spent almost every day in solitude wishing desperately for the company of those he had once called friends.  Now he would have given almost anything for some privacy in which to grieve for both Hermione and himself.

            "Ron," She said softly, "I'm really worried about you."

            "I'm fine," he said in a long sigh that choked itself off in the end.

            "Let me help you."

            He rolled over, turning his back on her, not caring that she meant well.  He wasn't the one who needed help.  Hermione was lying upstairs worse than dead, and his sister wanted to help cheer him up because his heart was breaking.  It seemed somehow pathetically ludicrous.

            "I just thought that perhaps it would be better if you were a bit more cheerful when you visited with her."  His little sister's voice had a hard edge to it now.  "You might be better off as well if you tried being happy once in a while."  

            He almost laughed.  She wanted him to be happy.  She made it sound so easy.  He had given up on happiness after Hermione had given up her maiden name.  As long as Hermione was beyond his reach, happiness too was outside his grasp, nothing more than an abstract idealism that he thought might have existed inside him in another time, in another life,

            He would never, ever be happy and it was all Snape's fault.

*           *           *

            "Mum, I'm worried about Ron."  Ginny tugged on the corner of _Witch Weekly, _looking her mother directly in the eye.  "Harry is too."

            Mrs. Weasley sighed heavily, a tired look in her eyes.  "We all are, dear.  I've tried talking to him for nearly a year now, but he just seems to tune both your father and I out.  I thought maybe he just needed some time to recover after Hermione and Severus," she shivered as she said the name, her face contorting oddly for a moment, "were married."

            "Don't you think he's had enough time," her daughter asked.  Mrs. Weasley noticed the cynical note her voice had acquired since she had ushered her onto the scarlet Hogwarts Express at the start of her seventh and final year that fall.  It made her feel very, very old.

            "Yes, Ginny, I do."  She said it with as much force and finality as she could muster.  Having raised seven children, she knew that her daughter was challenging her, and she was going to put a stop to it.  "You can't force someone to be what you want them to be though, dear."

            "I don't want to force him to _be _anything, mum."  There it was again, a hint of stubbornness, a taste of sedition.  Mrs. Weasley's eyes hardened for a moment, and then she let her face relax.  She had been young and idealistic once too.  Then life happened.

            "Don't you Ginny," she asked a touch coolly, this time being the one to challenge.  She covered her tone by smiling warmly at her daughter, though she knew that the look was a bit patronizing.  She watched her daughter thinking, her face going from the contorted mask of question, to the placid look of dumbfoundedness, to the hard edge of anger.  No doubt, she was wrongfully convinced that where she was pushing she was entirely welcome.

            "No," she said at last.  "I just think it would be better if he were happy."  The corners of Ginny's mouth dropped a little, and a bit of the sparkle left her eyes.  "He seems so very sad."  Her voice had gone from razor sharp to whisper soft in only a moment.

            Ms. Weasley put a reassuring hand on her youngest daughter's shoulder and squeezed it warmly.  "I just want to make it better," Ginny said after a moment.  "I want him to be happy."  She looked up at her mother, and the older woman smiled down at her.  "I guess I do want him to be something, then," she said, frowning a bit at her admission.  "I just don't see why that's a bad thing."

            "It isn't a bad thing, Ginny," Molly Weasley said in a voice that sounded as though it had been rehearsed and refined through a multitude of successive practice sessions.  "It's just, I don't know."  She looked out the kitchen doorway into the living room where her son was once again laying like a morbid objet d'art: sad, inert and defeated.  "You can't change the way someone feels about themselves unless they want you to.  Does that make sense?"

            Ginny frowned a bit thoughtfully, scowling as her mind mulled over her mother's latest admission.  "It's not how he feels about himself, though.  It's how he feels about Hermione.  If he would just let it go…" Her voice sounded almost wistful, and for a moment the older woman felt as though her nearly adult daughter were nothing more than a small child filled with euphoric dreams and hopes regarding how the world worked.

            "Gin, he can't let it go.  It looks so easy to us, but he can't."  Molly Weasley had had this talk with herself in regards to her son so many times that it sounded strange to hear the thoughts becoming spoken words.  "He just can't move on, and that's a part of him that comes from the inside and is in no way related to anything Hermione has ever said or done.  He thinks there's something there, and he won't give up until it either destroys him or he finds out that there is not."

            "Can't you do something?"  There was that childish innocence again.  Her daughter's eyes were so like they had been the day that she had asked her, nearly fifteen years ago, to bring their family cat back from the dead.  She had carried the poor inert creature into her mother atop of her pillow, asking her to make it better, confident that her mother could.  She nearly cried now, seeing that same hope in Ginny's eyes, the same confidence that if there was something to be done for Ron, her mother would be the one to do it.

            She shook her head slowly, the sadness that she felt for both her son and the innocent smile of her daughter seeming to weigh it down and hinder the movement.  "He has to find out for himself."  She squeezed her daughter's hand, and blinked back the tears that she knew would be coming if she looked too long.  "He has to decide when it's time to stop holding on and start letting go.  Just try to help him find his way, dear.  The best thing you can do for him is to support him, whatever his decisions."  She smiled at her youngest and squeezed her hand again.

            "But what if he never does?"  There she was again, two years old and innocent, reluctant to cross the threshold into reality and have her naivety further shattered, ground up by the unyielding destructive natures of life and time.

            Mrs. Weasley looked out the back window and into the garden, staring at a sun that was trying to peek its way through the thick white clouds that seemed to blanket the entire sky.  "Then maybe he knows something we don't," she whispered softly, breaking contact with her daughter and turning back to her newspaper, trying to distract herself from the wounds life had given her family, and their shared pain which no magic she possessed could heal.

*           *           *

            _It was cold, for June.  She remembered the way her wedding dress had been cut, it's thin straps leaving her arms bare.  She had refused the tradition of gloves in much the same way that she had refused the tradition of marriage for the sake of love.  Her skin had prickled with what muggles called gooseflesh, and the nylons her mother had insisted upon had caught a bit on the tiny lumps.  She supposed that had she been marrying a man she loved, the warmth in her heart would have overcome the frigid temperature.  What she felt, however, probably only made matters worse._

_            He was standing at the travesty of a muggle alter, waiting for her, looking neither pleased with he appearance nor happy to see her.  Her father had noticed the look as they proceeded up the aisle and had frowned at her again.  "Are you sure," he had whispered and she had nodded back to him with the confidence that only righteousness could breed.  Her parents had objected from the start and she could not wonder why as she stared at Severus, scowling from beneath the greasy sheen of hair he had neither bothered to wash nor pull back.  Faintly, she was disappointed that she had spent any time at all on her own beauty.  Rolling out of bed and donning some sort of funeral attire would have made her look like a more appropriate bride for her waiting groom._

_            She had shivered slightly all through the ceremony, everyone looking at her concernedly except for Severus, who had simply looked annoyed.  He was scowling at her as though she were nothing more than a mere student of the worst sort and not the woman who was about to become his wife.  She had glared back at him, and she saw the corners of his mouth curl in a twisted masochistic smile that was more of a snarl and which made him look even more fearsome than he had on the day she had met him, eight years ago come September._

_            They had shared a kiss that lasted just long enough for their lips to brush.  His mouth was like ice upon hers, and she felt as though the warmth of life were being sucked from her as she held his hand in the manner tradition dictated and they headed down the aisle together.   There had been none of the traditional fanfare and clapping.  Harry looked away as she tried to catch his eye, and Ron shook his head as though he could not believe that she had gone through with the ceremony.  He looked as though he had been crying, but she was certain his tears were not born of happiness._

_            The reception afterwards had been blissfully brief.  A receiving line, some congratulations and a fine dinner served in the Great Hall.  A few friends and some colleagues had attended but the gathering was still quite small.  She supposed there were many who refused to even try to understand and she smiled a sad smile for their ignorance rather than for self-pity._

_            She had followed Severus down to his chambers, and he had shown her the room where she would be sleeping.  She remembered her relief and the brief jump her heart had taken at his kindness.  She had been thinking for weeks now of the terrible effects nightly slumber on his tiny sofa would have and was filled with gratitude for the small bed and private chambers that had once been a private research area and reeked of cabbage.  They would share the rest of the living space as though it were a grotesque adaptation of one of the house common rooms.  She had turned in for sleep almost immediately, not even bothering to tell her new husband good night._

_            She remembered the way she had lain there, wishing for the reprieve of either sleep or death but finding neither.  Her mind had refused to yield to the temptation of slumber, and she had lain awake, staring at the small wind up antique alarm Severus had put beside her bed, sipping water from a beaker and thinking of Ron.       _

_It had been nearly a year since then, and gradually he had strayed from her mind, slipping away into the life she had used to know, no longer a part of who she was._

_            Now he was back, and he was hurting, but she couldn't bring herself to talk to him, couldn't bring herself to ease the pain they both shared by talking things over with him in a civilized way._

_            She couldn't bear to hurt him again._

_            He was a part of her past, once again a piece of her present, and the key to her future._

_            She had tried everything to change the last, but fate was a great, unyielding thing._

_            If she could just stay quiet, just become nothing, just make them give up then perhaps everything that was to come would never be._

_            Because she loved Ron, she would have to break his heart beyond repair.  _

_            She wondered if either of them could bear it._


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thanks to all who have reviewed so far, and especially to those who have reviewed since the last posting:

A/N II: All you have to do is look at my stuff to figure out whether or not I own Harry Potter.  I'm guessing it's a no…

*           *           *

Apathy.

            He stared down at her, and she did not look away.  For a moment, he thought her eyes had locked with his own, but when he glanced  again to be certain they were simply unfocused, aimed in his general direction but not really looking at him.  He sighed and then scowled.  How long was this going to go on?

            "I brought you your lunch," Harry said briefly, pulling the wooden chair over to her bedside and placing the tin tray upon it, making sure it was steady before turning away to help his friend sit up.  "Why don't you sit up and eat it?"  She didn't move, didn't even change the way she was breathing.  He might as well have not spoken at all.

            He leaned over and moved her into what he assumed would be a comfortable position for eating, grunting slightly as he struggled to adjust her.  He placed the tray in her lap as Ron had instructed him to, and watched as she moved the food from the dishes to her lips.  She took so little interest in the food or where it was going that he assumed he would have a terrible mess to clean after she had finished with the tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches Mrs. Weasley had prepared.  He was surprised to see Hermione and the surrounding bed as spotless as they had been when he had first arranged her after she dropped the spoon into the bowl for the final time and wiped her upper lip with the yellowing cloth napkin.

            She didn't say thank you, didn't so much as look away from the tray to acknowledge she was finished.  She continued staring at the same spot on the wall that she had through her entire meal, as though she were thinking of beginning again despite the fact that there was nothing left to start on.

            "Did you want some more?"  Nothing.

            He sighed again, staring at her as she sat.  She was quiet, but there was no placid aura of serenity surrounding her.  She had a hard look in her eyes, a frigid air about her that led Harry to believe that there still was something there.  Deep down, maybe, but still there.

            "I guess I'll be going then," he said glumly, picking up the tray and moving the chair he had sat upon back to the opposite corner of the room.  She said nothing.

            He grabbed the handle of the door and moved to pull it shut.  For a moment he stopped and stared as though trying to catch her in a private display of humanity.  "You know Hermione," he said at last, "you can only hide for so long."

            He waited a moment longer before shutting the door heavily to block out the terrible sound of her silence.

*           *           *

            "Ron, are you going to eat something or are you just going to sit around and mope again all day?"  Ginny sat down at the foot of the couch, squashing her brother's feet as she did so.

            "Ouch!  Move your arse, Ginny."

            "I asked you a question."

            Ron lifted his head from the pillow, his hair rumbled and slightly oily looking.  There were red marks slashed across his face where the pillowcase had creased and shoved into him while he had pretended to sleep.  "Shove off, Ginny," he said angrily, dropping his head down again, careful to avoid the large damp spot that was a mixture of both silent tears and drool.

            "Mum made tomato soup."

            "Mum _always_ makes tomato soup," he growled into the pillow.  "I'm sick of tomato soup.  Go away."

            She clicked her tongue disapprovingly in a manner that reminded him so much of Hermione he thought for a moment to look up and see if it was her.  "I think you should eat something," she repeated at last, a note of petulance in her voice.

            "Would you please just leave!"  He sat up and punched at the back of the sofa, missing and striking his knuckles upon the wall.  "Dammit, Ginny," he cursed her, looking at the bloody scrapes upon his hand.  "Look at what you made me do."

            "Watch your mouth, Ron," Harry said coolly, coming from the foot of the stairs and dropping the tin lunch tray he had carried up to Hermione on the battered coffee table that fronted the couch that had become Ron's bed.

            "Sod off, Harry," Ron said trying to fight the temptation to scream as he felt the anger rising hot and red in his face.  What did they know anyway?  Why should he have to eat that disgusting soup just because Ginny told him to?  Who was she to ask him for anything anyway?  Traitorous thing she was, having been in Hermione's wedding.

            "Ron," Ginny said, almost pleadingly, the anger in her voice having been replaced by a note of alarm, "please, calm down.  If you don't want to eat anything, it's okay, I just thought…"

            Harry waved her off, shaking his head.  "It's not about the bloody soup, Ginny," he said, pounding his right fist into his open left hand.  "He just wants us to feel sorry for him is all."  He glared at Ron with an expression of pity mixed with utmost contempt.  "Let's go."

            "Fine," Ron said, a note of sadness creeping through his bad temper as he shouted at Harry who had picked up the remnants of Hermione's lunch and was heading towards the kitchen to eat his own meal.  Ginny looked torn between following her boyfriend and staying with her brother, despite the nasty words he had spoken.  "Just walk out on me and do whatever you want.  You always do, anyway." 

            Harry stopped just inside the kitchen and turned around, facing Ron.  "Do I?'  He said in a challenging voice.  Ron said nothing.  "I asked you a question, Ron," he hissed a moment later.

            "You were always the one breaking the rules, Harry."

            "You did it right along with me.  You and Hermione."

            "Only because you asked us to."  Ron's voice was quieter now.  He chided himself for his outburst and wished he could take it back.  The anger that had welled inside of him had fueled his response, and he hadn't really meant what he said.  He had just chosen the knife he knew would inflict the most pain.  "We did it because you wanted us to."

            "Fine," Harry's fury hadn't tuned down at all.  It had simply become the quieter, more dangerous kind of rage.  "Everything's my fault.  You don't have to remind me of that, Ron."

            "Harry, I didn't mean that."  Ron felt all of the anger that he had directed at Harry seeping back inside and aiming towards himself once again.  Like a poison, it had been there for years now, eating away at him, killing him from the inside out.  He was never enough.  He had never been good enough.  Like everything he owned, he was second rate.  When Hermione had chosen Snape, it had simply exacerbated everything he had always hated about himself and driven him nearly mad with fury at what a loser he had allowed himself to become.  The only way to stop the pain was to stop trying to make a decent life, he had reasoned. If he never tried, he could never fail and he would never again have to feel the cold, iron grip of the mediocrity that he seemed destined for again.

            "Harry," Ginny said, half scolding, half pleading, "Please, stop it.  Both of you, don't do this to yourselves," she said, turning slightly to include Ron in her gaze as well.  The two boys stared coldly at one another, but some of the hostility that divided them seemed to have disappeared.

            "I'm sorry, mate," Ron said finally, standing up from the heap of blankets he had buried himself beneath in a most awkward and clumsy manner.  He stuck out his hand.

            Harry glared at him, and then softened a bit when he saw the sincerity in his friend's eyes.  "I'm sorry, too, Ron."  He shook the red head's hand, and then embraced him in a tight hug.  "Mates?"

            Ron nodded.

            "Good then," said Harry, rubbing his hands together briskly.  Ron could hear the false note of cheer in the boy's voice and wondered if he had just experienced the brunt of whatever personal wrath Harry likewise held for himself.  Harry smiled slightly, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.  Ron returned the expression, knowing that haunted look all too well.  He saw it in the mirror every morning.  "Let's have some lunch then, shall we?  Your mum makes a mean tomato soup."

            Ron huffed slightly.  "I'm still not hungry."

            Harry put his hand on Ron's shoulder.  "Come sit with us anyway, Ron.  Just because Hermione's temporarily given up on the land of the living doesn't mean that you have to too."  He squeezed his friend's shoulder slightly and turned away, leaving Ron to decide his own course of action.

            Ron looked back at the couch and then towards the doorway to the kitchen.  From within, he could hear the scraping sounds of food being served.  Ginny was laughing at something a little too loudly, obviously still discomforted by Ron and Harry's row.  His mum was asking about the shouting and then inquiring after him.

            He glanced up the stairs and sighed, still wishing that it were he in that bed and not Hermione, or that he had simply been brave enough to tell her how he loved her when there had been someone inside that shell of a body that was lying between his sheets that might have cared.  He thought for a moment of peeking in on her, but decided against it.  The pain it caused him was nearly unbearable.

            He ran a hand through his hair and sighed as he always did when faced with difficulty.  They didn't understand how hard it was for him to share in their complacency, to be a part of their normality.  They couldn't see how hard it was for him just to go on, couldn't see how he had to force himself to live.

            He took a deep breath in and headed for the kitchen, towards the light and warmth that made him so very uncomfortable these days, towards the friends and family that he had succeeded in pushing away once and had now returned to him when he wanted to be left alone more than ever.

            He stepped through the doorway and sat down at the table next to Ginny, greeting his mum and trying to wave away the bowl of soup that was now descending towards him after having served itself from the giant pot on the stovetop.  Mrs. Weasley admonished him to eat and rid himself of the nasty unhealthy pallor he had developed over the past two weeks.  Ginny giggled slightly, telling him that he was starting to look like Professor Snape with red hair.

            "Good," he said glumly, spooning up the soup and then turning the handle over and letting the contents fall back in to the waiting bowl.  "Hermione will like that."

            "Oh, Ron," said Ginny in a tired voice.  "I was just kidding."

            "I wasn't."

            Mrs. Weasly looked around uncomfortably.  "Ron, that's enough of that.  Finish your soup."

            "I'm not hungry," he said, pushing away from the table and heading off through the door and into the living room where he flopped down upon his couch again, thwarted from further activity by the agony in his heart.

            He only had one thing left to live for:

            The hope that one day he wouldn't be able to hold on anymore.

*           *           *


	6. Chapter 6

Author's note: I cannot express how sorry I am for the delay in adding to this story. After almost a year of writer's block, however, I am grateful to have happened upon some inspiration so that I could return to my work. I only hope that those who were once interested in this piece will return to reading it…

_Quiet now._

_ The only sound was of him breathing heavily beside her, his consciousness far away in the world where her dreams yet lived and there was still a bit of happiness left in her sorrowful life,_

_ He was sound asleep._

_ He had come into her room again, talking to her, brushing her hair. Again, he had clambered into the bed beside her. This time, though, she had known. This time, she had been ready._

_ He had cried himself to sleep, and she had felt sick deep in the pit of her stomach._

_ He had told her goodnight._

_ He had told her he loved her._

_ She wasn't sure what to think of that, so she tried not to._

_ She couldn't love. Not anymore._

_ At least not in a way that he would understand._

_Like love, there were many kinds of darkness. _

_ Some darkness could not be extinguished with the simple flip of a switch._

_ She wondered if her heart was black now, frostbitten from the chill in her soul._

_ She willed herself to focus on now, enraptured by the sound of Ron's steady breathing. So unlike Severus. Through the sheet that separated them, she could feel that he was warm. _

_ Or maybe she was just so cold._

_ He grunted, stirring slightly in his sleep. Don't tense. Relax. Breathe. The moment passed, and he stirred no more. So unlike Severus. She could hear him thrash about every night, even from the sanctity of her private room._

_ In some grotesque way, she had always wanted to go to him. Wanted to comfort him._

_ Madness._

_ Anything to stop the pain._

_ Remembering was hard. It would have been so much easier to forget. Will it away. Stop the pain._

_ Ron had always been there to help her before she had chosen Snape. She hadn't known whether to resent or appreciate that when she had first started slipping away from the grasp of her classmates and into the world that would soon become her reality._

_ In the mornings, they used to talk over breakfast._

_ "How long did your detention last last night?" A question, but already, the edge had been there._

_ "He kept me fairly late." Shrug. Smile as though it was nothing. It was nothing._

_ "Don't you think some people might see something wrong with that?" A note of concern. Had it been for her, or for what he had thought he was losing?_

_ "Maybe." She had given up caring what people thought. Even then, things like that were starting to slip away._

_ "You should tell McGonnagle." Pause. "You could get him in serious trouble for harassing you you know. Maybe you could even get him sacked!" He had always offered that, as though it were his place. She remembered the hope. Hope, the last refuge of madmen and dreamers. Once, she had been one of those._

_ "Why don't you tell?" She had always raised her eyebrows then. Everyday, it had been the same._

_ "I hate him." The first hints of frost had been forming on his heart as well._

_ "It isn't a big deal. I don't really mind. He lets me get my homework done. It's not like he's been making me do odd jobs for him the entire time." She had always wanted to change the subject._

_ "You do too mind. I know you better than that." Like he thought he could protect her by changing her._

_ "It doesn't matter. I'll tolerate it." The same tired sigh. "It's easier this way Ron. Can't you see how much easier it is when you don't try to fight him?" That same feeble excuse. Don't cross that line._

_ "That doesn't sound like you. I never thought you'd choose what was easy over what was right." He always thought he knew what was best for everyone. She could see now how well he had taken his own advice._

_ "There are some battles you should choose to let go, Ron." He hated the truth because he had always wanted more from her. Even then, some part of him had seen that Severus Snape would have her, and that she would let him. Even then, he knew he had no chance._

_ "You can't just let people run over the top of you like that, Hermione! Dammit, why won't you listen to anyone? You've said it yourself, for God's sake. This whole thing is a joke. I don't like what it's done to you. You look so Goddamn old." One last plea. She had always been wiping her mouth with the Gryffindor crest imprinted upon her linen napkin at this point, letting the rough cloth clear away the remnants of her breakfast from her freshly washed skin. She had always showered in the morning because it delayed Parvati and Lavender from rising from their beds. She had liked her peace. She could pretend that life was good when there was no one to be seen._

_ "Don't try to fix me. I'm not broken." Not yet. Not then._

_ "Just think about it, Hermione." A sigh that signaled his inevitable defeat. She wondered why he had always tried. He had never won._

_ "I'll save myself." Curt and evil sounding. Even then, she had been trying to break his heart. She had known in an intuitive way. The certainty would come later._

_ She wondered now if he remembered those days._

_ She wondered if he remembered her._

_ He was dreaming now. She could tell by the way he was twitching. She didn't dream. Not anymore. Now, there was nothing to save her from the dark._

_ She felt him kick her in the leg and tried not to flinch. So like Severus, the few times she had slept beside him. _

_ He grunted, rolling over. The breathing stopped. He was awake, staring at her. She could feel it. Severus had taught her that, standing in the darkened doorway to her room, caught between shadow and blackness where she could never quite see him. She had learned to feel his presence, staring._

_ Breathe. That was the only way to fool. Breathe. Asleep, dead, it didn't matter. Breathe. Breathe._

_ "Hermione." Don't react. The name. In the beginning, it had given her away to Snape. He had seen through her when she flinched at her name. She had learned. By the last, he thought she slept like the dead._

_ She would have rather died in her sleep._

_ A touch, just on the shoulder. She remembered their days at Hogwarts again. _

_ No. Don't remember. It hurts…_

_ Tears, hot, wet and salty._

_ Please, God, don't let him see._

_ "Hermione." More of a question now. Did he know? Had he seen? No. His sigh was too sad, too long, too wounded._

_ Some wounds would not heal._

_ Arms now, around the waist._

_ 'God, don't let him hold me.' As if she still believed in any God. God was dead. If there was a God, she would be working in a potions laboratory somewhere, trying to fix the problems of the world through drafts she stoppered in glass vials.. If there was a God, He would just let her let go._

_ If there was a God, He would let her die._

_ "God, please help me to help Hermione." Why did he waste his prayers on her?_

_ "Our Father who art in Heaven…" His eyes closed. She felt his eyelashes brush the back of her neck. Don't pray for me…_

_ "hallowed be thy name…" The pain. Throbbing now. Stop._

_ "thy kingdom come, thy will be done…" He prayed as though she were dying. Perhaps he thought she was. Perhaps he thought it would be kinder. She must not deserve to die._

_ "on Earth as it is in Heaven." She was going to explode. He had to feel her breath quickening now. _

_ "Give us this day our daily bread…" If there was a God, He wouldn't forgive her._

_ "and forgive our trespasses…" Did he want her to be forgiven, or himself?_

_ "as we forgive those who trespass against us." She could feel him squeeze her tighter. He was thinking of Severus, no doubt. He should have been thinking of her._

_ "Lead us not into temptation…" She didn't remember temptation. There had only been choices. Neither good nor bad, right nor wrong. Things that had to be done. Life that had to go on. She didn't believe in black and white, not anymore. Everything was gray._

_ "But deliver us from evil…" His voice trailed away. He held her tighter, closer. _

_ Evil. He was thinking of Snape again. Imagining things that had never been. He had never asked. She had never said._

_ She was thinking of life._

_ Life was more evil than she could have ever imagined._

_ She wondered if he would understand. He wouldn't._

_ He still believed._

_ As long as the white candle of hope yet burned inside his heart, he would never understand her pain, never understand her emptiness._

_ Trying to kill the pain only brought more._

_ She didn't believe in hope._

_ She didn't believe in anything he would understand anymore._

"How is she?" Albus Dumbledore sat down at the kitchen table with Molly and Ginny Weasley, Harry having managed to drag Ron off to a minor league quidditch game after the latter had emerged from Hermione's room late that morning, pretending as though he had fallen asleep in the chair talking with her again. His mum knew better, but she had said nothing. Somehow, with Hermione in the state she was it seemed more a violation of her son's own soul than it did of Hermione's privacy. He had made it plain enough that he would destroy himself as he saw fit. She knew from experience that there was little she could do to stop him. Perhaps lying with his friend helped him in some twisted, grotesque sort of way.

"No change." Molly sighed softly, conjuring up steaming mugs of tea with her wand and shaking her head softly. "She still hasn't spoken to anyone."

"Not even Ginny?"

"No." Ginny sounded as though she were going to cry, her voice quavering with strain as though the whole ordeal were too much reality for her.

Molly drummed her pudgy, calloused fingers on the tabletop, staring down into the steaming mug before her as though she expected the liquid within to converse with her. The Earl Grey stared placidly back, offering nothing. "I thought she would talk to Ginny too," she said at last.

"She won't even look at me," Ginny shivered. "I hate going in there. It's creepy. I don't know how Ron can stand to sleep in there with her. It's like she's dead." She stopped and thought for a moment, adding at last, "only worse."

"Have you heard anything about Severus Snape?" Mrs. Weasley turned towards Dumbledore again, trying to take the pressure away from Ginny.

"Nothing." The elderly man twisted his face in a sad sort of smile and shook his head. "It's a bit odd, but no one seems to have any news."

Molly raised her red eyebrows slightly. "That _is_ odd, with the network we've set up. You'd think it would work a little better"

Dumbledore smiled at her. "I can't quite believe it, myself. Usually if there's no news, someone manages to make something up. No one seems to have any leads on Severus, though. I've asked everyone I know that might have a clue as to his whereabouts, and most of them just sigh and ask if he was the one who married Hermione, clucking their tongues like it was some sort of tragedy."

"It was some sort of tragedy," Ginny spat. "All that time I spent with her…if I had known what was coming, I would have told her to run as fast as she could and never look back. She was better off before she ever knew him."

"I don't know that that's entirely true," Molly reproached her daughter softly. She knew there was more to what went on between Hogwarts's Potions Master and his young wife than met the eyes, though exactly what she could not say. She had known Hermione for years now. It just wasn't like her to do anything in haste and without a good reason. She was too focused, too serious. The surface value of her relationship with Severus was too negligible for her to have considered it without some sort of extenuating circumstances.

Ginny looked at her with raised eyebrows and shook her head just enough so that Molly could see it, but not enough that she wouldn't be able to deny the gesture. Mrs. Weasley ignored it, turning back to Dumbledore. "What about Potions classes? I asked Arthur if he would try to do something over at the ministry, but he says they haven't the time or available resources."

Dumbledore sighed. "We've got some alumni in, the ones who were reasonably adept at Potions and have time to spare. Then there's Draco Malfoy…" His voice trailed off, and the temperature in the kitchen seemed to grow measurably colder at the mere mention of the man's name.

Ginny coughed, a word sounding suspiciously like "worthless" coming out along with her forced breath.

"His father still has many important and influential friends as you well know. He found out there was an opening in the Potions department through some Slytherins who were desperately missing their head of house and did everything he could to push Draco in. Though I made it clear I would allow no supporters of the Dark Arts among my staff, I had little choice but to take Draco, seeing as he has never been accused of actually practicing them." He held up his hand to quiet Molly's protest. "Now, now Molly. We can't make everyone around us guilty by association alone."

Ginny broke down, sounding as though she were going to cry again. "Why couldn't you have stopped them from getting married?"

"Because there are many things that are not within my power, Miss Weasley, and controlling the life of another is one of them." Dumbledore looked up the young girl kindly, giving her a smile that never quite reached his eyes.

"I just always thought that there might have been some way for you to stop her from ruining her life." Ginny looked sad and tired.

"There was nothing I could do. She had made up her mind. You were not Hermione's only friend, Ginny," Dumbledore admonished her gently. "She knew that, in my office, she was always welcome." He paused a minute, draining the last dregs of the tea from his mug. "Is she still in the same place, Molly?"

The matronly woman nodded. "Just down the hall."

Dumbledore stood up. "I have to get going in a few minutes, but I want to see her. Thanks for the tea." He pushed away from the table and walked off down the hallway, Ginny's voice following him.

"Do you think he can help?" The younger girl sounded hopeful.

Mrs. Weasley sighed as though she were holding the weight of the world. "Ginny, I think the only one who can help Hermione is Hermione."

"Why would Dumbledore do something like that?" Harry asked as Ginny relayed the news about Draco Malfoy's temporary takeover as Potions Master to he and Ron later that evening. "I feel sorry for you." He put his arm around Ginny as though to console her and she rolled her eyes, the slightest trace of a smile on her lips.

"Which do you think is worse," she asked, "Malfoy or Snape?"

"Snape," Ron said without hesitation, the deadly seriousness of his answer casting a somber mood over the conversation. He stood up from the couch and clattered towards the stairs, stomping on each step as he ascended towards what had once been his room.

Harry sighed as he listened to him go. "I thought he might have cheered up a little after watching the match today. I was hoping that taking his mind off things for a minute might help him put the whole situation into a better perspective. I wanted him to figure out that he's doing everything he can for Hermione right now and that none of this is his fault."

Ginny looked up at him sharply. "He thinks this is his fault?"

The green eyed boy sighed and ran a hand through his messy mop of dark hair. "He thinks that Hermione would have never married Snape if he would have plucked up the courage to tell her how much he loved her all of those years." He shook his head. "Something tells me it wouldn't have been that simple, though. I think he's just fooling himself."

Ginny put her arms around her knees and rocked slowly back and forth, staring off into space as though contemplating something. At last, she said, "I know it wouldn't have made any difference to her. One night over last winter break the two of us stayed up late in the common room talking. I sort of let it slip out that Ron really cared for her." She blushed slightly, resuming her rocking as though ashamed and uncomfortable with her admission.

"What did she say?" Harry pressed.

"She said that she knew. She'd known for a long time, but she didn't want to say anything. I think she sort of hoped he would keep his feelings to himself. She didn't want to ruin their friendship with a romance, and she knew that it would be ruined because she never felt the same way about him. He was her best friends, and she loved him for that but that was the extent of how deep her feelings ran." She stopped rocking and laid her chin on her knees, staring right into Harry's eyes. "I didn't tell Ron because I didn't think he'd ever come out and tell her how he felt. I figured they would either drift apart over time and he would stop pining for her, or that he would finally come up with the strength to tell her and hearing the words from his mouth would change her mind."

Now it was Harry's turn to blush. "I did a stupid thing, then."

"Oh?"

He bit his lower lip and shook his head ever so slightly. "You know, when I told him to tell Hermione he loved her."

Ginny put her feet back on the floor and leaned her chin on the palms of her hands. "I don't know. It's been a long time now, and a lot of things have changed. I just don't think he should beat himself up over never admitting his feelings to her. She knew they were there, so I don't think that consideration of a future with Ron would have stopped her from marrying Snape."

Harry kissed her softly on the cheek. "You know, you didn't make things too much easier, though."

"Why's that?" She looked up at him quizzically.

"Now I have to decided between leaving him be so he can hate himself for never telling her, or telling him that she knew and didn't care, so he can hate himself for that."

_"Hermione?" Ron again. It was early for him to be visiting. She didn't know if she had the strength after sitting through Dumbledore. Somehow, it seemed as though the Headmaster knew that she yet lingered inside the husk of her body. She would have to be more careful in the future. _

_ He held her hand as she concentrated on being nothing. Quidditch had always been a bore to her. She supposed that some things never changed. _

_ He, too, had held her hand as he showed her. She remembered the distant feel of his cold fingers intertwining with her warmer ones as she stared at the robed image of a wizard that seemed recognizable in the most distant sense of the word floating precariously above his obsidian pensive. At first she had blanched at the gesture, but, in time, she became grateful for his support._

_ Another prophecy, he explained to her. He made it sound so simple. She had seen her life falling away. She had always hated divination, but, in time, and under his guidance, she had come to see that the prophecies were anything but wooly and imprecise. _

_ She remembered the way she had nodded in quiet understanding, neither of them needing to say anything, both of them too afraid to utter the words they should have spoken._

_ At that moment, he owned her._

_ She had floated through the rest of her days at Hogwarts in a surreal fog, trying to live the way she always had, to be the way she had always been. She couldn't find the strength to tell her friends so she kept them in the dark._

_ She remembered how Ron had been the first to show some concern towards her. He had seen the change, though he would have never recognized it for what it was. She had smiled bravely then and pushed him aside with a prefunctatory curtness that seemed to inhibit further inquiry from him._

_ As long as she could pretend it had never happened she would be able to hold on._

_ It was much the same now. _

_ As long as she could pretend the next step must never happen…_

"Ginny's thinking of going back to Hogwarts a couple days early," Harry announced to Ron the next morning as the two of them breakfasted together. Mrs. Weasley had taken off for Diagon Alley earlier that morning to visit the Apothecary and Ginny was upstairs with Hermione.

"So?" said Ron in a thick, surly voice.

Harry fought to keep the exasperation out of his voice. Ron was really becoming difficult to deal with. "So, I thought it might be a good idea if the two of us were to accompany her."

"Why?" Ron was staring out the window into the garden.

"Well," Harry said, "It would do you some good to get out of this house and away from Hermione, for one thing. For another, I thought that maybe we could take a look around and see what there was to see, if you know what I mean."

Ron looked at him incredulously. "You mean go snooping through Snape's stuff?" His eyes lit up for just a moment as though the though of mischievous activity had breathed new life into him somehow.

Harry shook his head. "No. I know Dumbledore would never let us do that. I though, though, that we might be able to get a look at Hermione's things. You know, see if there were any clues for solving the mystery that she left behind." His eyes twinkled slightly in the dim morning light. "I'd also like to have a little talk with Malfoy."

"What does Ginny think of all this?" Though Ron seemed far from enthused, his attention on the matter at hand was somehow reassuring to Harry.

"She thought of it."

"Oh. What does Dumbledore think?"

"Well," Harry drug out the first word and thinned his lips slightly. "I only managed to tell him part of the truth. I said we wanted to get some of Hermione's things for her to try to make the Burrow feel more like home for her. I think I convinced him that it would help to speed up the recovery process."

"He believed you?" Ron looked incredulous, and with good reason. There was little that had ever slipped past Dumbledore.

"Let's just say he Okayed it." Harry grinned sheepishly. "I sort of let it go at that. We're leaving this afternoon. Ginny already told your mum."

"Who's going to stay with Hermione?" Ron asked, a little bit of the light leaving his eyes. "I don't think we should leave her here alone."

"Look, Ron," said Harry, "Hermione is an adult. She is capable of caring for herself for a couple of hours between the time we leave and when your mom returns. We can make some lunch for her and take it to her and then leave. I'm sure she'll be alright." Ron opened him mouth to protest, but Harry held a hand up and stopped him. "Mate, you know that if you stay here you're just going to be moping on the couch anyway. It's not like she's going to be calling for you because she needs something. You know that."

Ron thought for a long moment before replying, "I suppose you're right." He rubbed his hands together briskly as he stood up and then clapped Harry on the back. "I hope it's worth it, though."

"So do I," said Harry, just a note of glum sneaking into his otherwise cheerful voice.

_Alone._

_ For the first time since coming here, she could relax. _

_ She threw herself out of the bed and paced about the room, stretching and flexing all of the muscles that had become sore from her self-induced sabbatical. _

_ She was alone._

_ Except for the pain._

_ She lay back down, suddenly having lost the will to be free as the weight of all that was to be came crashing down upon her._

_ She tried to tell herself that it didn't have to be so but she had given up on that line of defense long ago._

_ It had been foretold._

_ She could almost feel it rushing towards her faster than she could escape._

_ The demons were coming hope to roost, and it seemed now that the burden was more than she could bear._

_ She tried to forget, but his voice lingered in her mind, chasing away all of the hope within her, washing away her tenuous grip on sanity._

_ There were some things no amount of time could erase._

_ She remembered light, and love, and laughter._

_ Now there dark, and hate, and tears._

_ She wished to die, but hadn't the will to end it._

_ The prophecy had to be fulfilled._

_ One must be sacrificed for the good of the many, and she must lead him to the alter of destiny._

_ She wondered if he would be waiting for her on the other side._

_ She wondered if he would forgive her._

_ Her wounded soul cried for the bliss of deliverance, but knew she did not deserve such rapture._

_ She tried not to remember him._

_ If she could only forget the life they had shared, the light, the love, and the laughter._

_ If she could only forget all they might have had._

_ If she could only forget how he had loved her._

_ Live. Breathe._

_ Behind the lids of her eyes, she saw his face._

_ She could not deny what she dreamed._

_ Live. Breathe._

_ He was taking over._

_ One for the good of the many._

_ The one she loved, the one that could have ended the loneliness, stopped the pain._

_ It wouldn't be long now._

_ She had always loved him, and she was afraid._

_ Safe inside herself, she carried all of her love for him._

_ One for the good of many._

_ Live. Breathe._

_ If she could only forget, only wake without knowing the truth._

_ Say goodbye…_

_ Don't be afraid…_

_ It would all be over soon…_

"Nothing," Ron said, sighing as he finished searching through a small stack of papers in the corner. "This is just some old issues of _Potions Quarterly_ and some newsletters." Angrily he threw down one stack of letters. "This is ridiculous. I thought that there had to be something here somewhere."

Ginny stopped rifling through the shelves housing all of Snape's books and looked up at her brother. "We haven't gone through everything, Ron. I've just started on these shelves, and you've only gone through one file cabinet and that stack of papers. Why don't you go into her bedroom and see if you can find anything there?"

Ron stalked off towards the small room that reeked of cabbage that the two of them had agreed must be Hermione's. He remembered how much lighter it had made him feel to see that, if nothing else, Hermione hadn't shared a bed with her husband. He shuddered when he thought of that, and willed himself to open her door and look around.

Everything inside was neat and clean. The bed was made, a homemade yellow quilt turned back and a pile of pillows arranged just so. Because of the old fashioned spells on the castle, Hermione had been able to enter he and Harry's dorm room while they were all living in Gryffindor, but he had never been able to visit her room. He assumed that it was always so orderly.

He opened drawers, quickly shutting one and blushing at the orderly pile of folded whit knickers and crisp stockings lying within. The next drawer housed clean undershirts. The third flannel pajamas. The closet was hung according to function and then by color, light to dark. He noticed that there was a lot of black.

He opened the trunk that he assumed had always held her school things and found it overflowing to the point that he assumed it must be bewitched in order to house the contents. It seemed as though she had saved every single piece of schoolwork that she had ever done and every text they had ever been assigned to read. Each piece was neatly filed away by year and then by subject and date. Grabbing a folder, he flopped down on the bed and began to rifle through, certain that the clues they were looking for were lying somewhere on a bit of parchment. He wouldn't rest until he had looked at everything she could have possibly left a message on.

He remembered as he read, astounded by the care with which she had done even the most mundane of tasks that had been assigned to them. Every mark was high. He wondered if she had ever failed at anything aside from her choice of husbands. He was more grateful to her now than he had ever been in all the time they had spent together as classmates. Looking back, he realized he would have never made it without her.

"Find anything?" Ginny asked as she stepped through the door over an hour later.

"You're finished with all of those books already?"

"Most of them. I'm taking a break."

He turned back to his reading, having just reached the third year. Ginny left seemingly disgusted at his refusal to chat with her. He had no time to waste if he was going to save Hermione, and he read like a man possessed. He had to know what Snape had done to her. Suddenly, he stopped, feeling like something was wrong.

The page before him was not neat and precise as the others had been. Instead, it was filled with notations, some passages underlined and others circled. Ron held the parchment closer and read it through carefully, wondering when Hermione had become so interested in Divination, especially considering that he could vividly remember her walking out of Trewlawney's class in their third year.

Eagerly, he dug through the rest of her "Divination" folder. Only some of the essays were marked in the same fashion as the one he had read. The rest were as clean as all of the other pieces he had looked through.

Stepping down from the bed, he made his way over to her trunk and opened it, rummaging around until he found her Divination book. Much of it was highlighted and annotated, but one section had been book marked. He opened to the indicated page and found himself staring at the chapter concerning Prophecies. Setting the book aside, he turned back to her papers and found that all those that had been sullied pertained to that same subject matter. He read through each of them carefully, but found nothing that would be of any help to him.

Frustrated, he carried the lot out to Ginny, who was now attempting to magically open a Gothic inspired desk in the corner of the study. "What do you think this means?" he asked, frantic to find an answer.

She looked over the pile deliberately, studying each piece. "Other than that she's interested in the subject of Prophecies? I haven't the slightest idea."

Ron looked crestfallen. "I _know_ there's something to this, Ginny. She hated Divination. She thought it was a load of rubbish. She quit the bloody class, for Merlin's sake!"

Ginny threw her hands up in the air. "Maybe she decided to study it on her own. I don't know what to tell you other than keep looking. You might have found something, but it doesn't really tell us much at this point. If I were you, I would try the drawer in her nightstand."

"Why?"

She smiled softly. "Where else would a girl keep her diary?"

Ron nearly tripped over his own large feet hurrying back to the room he had just vacated. Sliding across the stone floor on a small square of carpet she had placed at the bedside he slammed into the nightstand causing a goblet of water on top to hurtle onto the floor. Not bothering to clean up the mess, he jerked the drawer open and began tossing the contents onto the bed.

Trembling, he picked up a book of parchment sheets bound in red leather and filled with Hermione's tidy writing and began to read.

"Malfoy." Harry's voice sounded cold and heavy as he descended the stairs he so well remembered, walking towards his nemesis.

"Potter," the blonde man acknowledged him, looking up from some correspondence he hastily shoved away. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask the same of you." He arched his eyebrows just so, peering callously through his glasses.

"I teach Potions here," Draco drawled. "Surely your scores didn't permit you to secure a teaching position here as well?" It wasn't a question.

"You know damn well that I play Seeker for Oxfordshire, Draco, seeing as I outplayed you to earn the position on the team. I guess there really are some things your father can't buy."

Draco shrugged. "Perhaps. It's possible though that he just didn't try hard enough."

Silence permeated the air for a moment before Harry continued, still standing a few steps up from the level at which Malfoy was. "Where is he, Malfoy?"

Draco's lips curled back slightly and he shook his head, adopting a tone that suggested Harry was a small child he had caught raiding the biscuit tin. "Well, isn't this interesting? You barge in here, insult me and my family, and then expect me to give you answers. I'm afraid that that simply won't do." He reached in his robes and pulled out his wand, making Harry tense visibly. "Jumpy, aren't we?" Draco laughed, continuing to twirl the wand in his hand. "Don't worry Potty, my big bad wand won't hurt you."

"Damn you, Malfoy!" Harry lunged towards his rival, his wand also drawn, but stopped himself as he reached the blonde. Standing toe to toe, he hissed, "tell me what I want to know."

Malfoy shook his head again, seemingly unperturbed by Harry's dramatic show. "I don't know anything about it, Potter, and I certainly have nothing to do with it. I don't know if Lucius does or not. For that information, I'm afraid you will have to have the misfortune of asking him." He turned his back, robes swirling at his feet and returned to the desk. "Was there anything else?"

Harry stalked over to the desk and held his wand straight out in front of him. Malfoy didn't so much as blink. "If I find out you're lying, Malfoy…"

Draco smiled. "One thing that you've always failed to understand, Potter, is why a Slytherin does anything."

Harry lowered his wand slowly. "I'm listening."

Malfoy shrugged as though it were obvious. "For what's in it for them."

The dark haired boy crossed his arms, his foot tapping against the stone floor impatiently. "I'm waiting."

"Do you really think that I want to spend my days here teaching this drivel to mindless drones like the riff raff they insist on allowing to flow through here? I am the Malfoy heir. I don't have to do anything, ever, if I don't want to. My duty is to donate to charities and gain power and prestige. I'm only here because Lucius arranged it without my consent. He said that Slytherin must remain in the proper hands now that dear Severus has departed. Just when I thought I had forever washed my hands of this institution and the way it has marked me, I find myself within its walls again, forced to aid the next generation in continuing the legacy."

"Just how did Hogwarts mark you?"

Malfoy licked his lips before answering. "My father went here, Potter. Everything my father did, I have to do. I am not my father, though."

Harry scoffed, "sometimes, Draco, I find that difficult to believe."

"Manners Potter. You shouldn't insult me so. I may be cold, cunning, ambitious, and willing to do nearly anything to achieve my own end, but I am not sick nor am I cruel. Mean spirited? Perhaps. But not cruel. You would do well to remember that. Good day, Potter."

Draco looked down at the paper he had left on the desk once again, leaving Harry no choice but to retreat.

"What was the Prophecy, Hermione?" Ron stood over her bed, the door shut and locked, his voice a gravely whisper. Reading her diaries had yielded little to him except for the fact that there was a Prophecy of some sort that had become an object of obsession for her sometime in the fall of their final year at Hogwarts.

She wouldn't answer, just lay there, looking frozen inside. He looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time since she had come to the Burrow and was astounded by what he found. Her hair was no longer as full and bushy as it had once been. Instead it hung in limp strands. Her face seemed sunken somehow, and old. It was as though she had aged half a lifetime since they had graduated. He felt himself shrinking away to nothing, his blood seeming to stop flowing in his veins.

"Hermione," he whispered, wondering if there was anything left in there. "I have to know. Please."

_ "What was the Prophecy, Hermione?" Don't blink. Don't wake up. She felt herself stirring inside, her blood starting to run, her soul unfreezing. He knew. God help them both, he had found out._

_ Breathe. Nothing. She was nothing. She would not come to life. As long as she could will it away. It couldn't be real._

_ It was coming full circle._

_ "Hermione, I have to know. Please."_

_ You know not what you ask…_

_ Don't wake up._

_ Never live again._

_ Don' bring me to life…_

"I know you know what I'm talking about, Hermione. Please, you have to tell me. I have to know so I can save you." He stared down at her, pleading, begging, trying to see through her eyes to the soul he was certain still lived in side.

"You can't just leave it at this, Hermione. I know what this about, now. I have to know why. Why is it so terrible? What is the Prophecy?" Knowing would make it aright, he reasoned. If he just knew, he could help her. He could her, and he could stop the pain if only he knew the source.

He only needed a light so he could see…

_ "I have to know so I can save you." No one could save her now. She didn't want to be saved. _

_ "You can't just leave it at this, Hermione." Turn your soul away. Try to hide. Close your mind. _

_ "I know what this is about, now." What you know is nothing. There's so much more to come…_

_ "I have to know why." Be careful what you wish for…_

_ "Why is it so terrible?" Don't give in. Death before her eyes. _

_Standing next to her. _

_ "What is the Prophecy?"_

_ Close your eyes._

_ Run._

_ Hide._

_ Turn out the lights._

_ Fear the answer._

_ Fear the answer._

_ Fear the answer…_

He stopped, stunned for a moment. She had closed her eyes and turned away. He reached down and shook her more violently than he had intended. "Tell me! I know you heard me! Tell me now!"

Nothing.

"Don't turn away from me like that! After everything you've put me through, you owe me that much. Don't even pretend that you aren't there, because I saw. I saw!" The words were pouring from him furiously and full of venom. Somehow, her reaction had pushed him beyond the edge. She was there. She was there, and despite everything, she was pretending not to be, and she thought him foolish enough to believe. He couldn't seem to stop himself as every sin he had ever committed seemed to converge on him at once. He felt like a mad man, and he had no choice but to release his pain.

"Tell me!" He screamed, clawing at the bed sheet, his eyes rolling. "Tell me!"

_ "Tell me!" The screams seemed to shatter all of the ice that had capped her heart. She wanted to die. There would be no salvation._

_ "I saw!" No. Tell yourself you didn't. Read between the lines. _

_ "Tell me!" His urging was growing more violent, more insistent. She began to cry, salty trails of regret flowing down her cheeks. She stared at him, his eyes rolling like a demon spit from hell. Inside, there was no trace of the good man she knew as Ron Weasley._

_ "Tell me!" Where was the edge between reality and where she dwelt, alone._

_ She was falling._

_ She was burning._

_ She was dying, slipping over the edge and back into reality._

_ She clasped her ears to block out the dull roar that was the sound of all the pain she had ever lived through and seemed to come from everywhere and no where at once._

_ Make it stop._

_ Enditenditendit…_


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: I know that this is a rather short chapter, but I felt that, as this was the beginning of a new part f the story, it needed to be separated from the previous chapter. After making you wait for so long, I didn't want to hold anything I had already written out on you.

A/N II: They don't belong to me, just the story does.

Alone.

He told himself he had always preferred it that way, after all.

Somehow, though, he couldn't deny that things were different now. She had changed him. He wondered if that, too, had been intended.

He looked around him, the shadows created by the feeble, flickering light of a white candle his only company in the small, drafty cottage she had banished him to in order to save him. It was some sort of cabin her parents owned but seldom visited she had explained. He didn't care what it was, so long as he was safe within its walls.

He had taken her as his wife nearly one year ago despite the fervent protests of his colleagues and her peers alike. She had stood firmly by him in the face of adversity, and for her fortitude he had come to admire her a bit. She was a survivor. She was going to have to be.

They had worked out a way to live together without killing one another. He had his rooms and she hers. They rarely saw one another unless they happened to be in the study at the same time. When they were together they rarely spoke. He had doubted they had much in common. She hadn't wanted to find out.

Being in public was the most difficult. When they ate in the Great Hall, they sat next to one another and treated each other with the cold sort of civility that was the closest thing to humanity that he could seem to muster while simultaneously the farthest thing from typical behavior of newlyweds that he could possibly imagine. She would not consent to be in any way intimate with him and he had learned never to try. It wasn't a practice that broke his heart.

She was harder than he had ever imagined, tougher than even he. He remembered how such a thing had surprised him about her. On the outside, she was innocent and virginal. Inside, she was cold as ice and numb to the world. People like them had to be.

She had arranged for the condition he was in now after the last attack. She had borne witness to the Prophecy long ago, and had selflessly understood the depth of the ties they had been born to share. She had offered him assistance out of pity, and he at first couldn't bear to take it. Pity was worse than loathing.

Somehow, her knowledge of his pain as something that was tangible and not detached in a world where it could never interact with her own had changed her. She moved and spoke differently now. There was no warmth in her eyes when they fell upon him, but there was a degree of understanding that he had never known another human capable of possessing. There was a spark of hatred for what he was fighting against that went deeper than the standard wishes of ill that most seemed to possess.

Somewhere along the way his survival had intermeshed with her only hope, and her sanity dependant on the knowledge that he survived.

He wondered what she thought, now.

He wondered if she still dared to dream.

She had sent him away, pushed him from her life in an attempt to save them both. She had accepted what was coming with a resolve greater than anything he had ever known. She was careful, diligent and shrewd to a degree most could never attain. She had used a cunning that he would have never thought to attribute to her a short time ago and had found a way for them to endure.

He had carried with him a small sack with nothing but a change of clothes and a small pouch of galleons she had pulled from her own vault. Anything more she said they could trace. Anything less she said he could not survive.

She had kissed him then, for the only time since their matrimonial ceremony, and implored to him that it was imperative that he survive.

And so he did.

He owed her that much.

She lingered in the dark.

He could feel her as close as the shadows of the night, smell the soapy scent of her in the dank air of forest, almost hear her whisper in the leaves that crunched beneath his feet. He reached his freckled hand out as though to touch her, to feel tangible warmth within the caress of his fingertips, and met with nothing.

He could see the cabin in the distance, just as she had described it. The wind whipped beneath the invisibility cloak he had borrowed from Harry at her insistence, raising gooseflesh beneath his trousers. He wondered if it was from the cold inside or out. He wondered if he had the strength to do this.

She had kissed him so softly and squeezed his hand as she said goodbye. Harry had pleaded to go in his place, but she had been insistent that it must be he, Ron, that deliver the tiny scroll she had meticulously written in black ink to Severus.

Still, she had turned away when he said he loved her, a sad sort of smile and the feel of her lukewarm fingertips against his stubbly face the only indication that she had even heard his words. Now he was left mourning that love for her, a love that he knew would forever linger within him and never die.

What was the Prophecy? She still had failed to tell him; the only sign that she recognized his words was the haunted look her eyes took on at the mention of it. She said only that it must be fulfilled. He wondered, as he walked the final steps to the rough hewn door of the cabin, how she had come to believe so deeply in a branch of magic she had never before acknowledged as worthy of study even.

He wondered what the Prophecy had to do with anything, and why it seemed so very important to her.

Feeling wary, he raised his fist and knocked on the door.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: I'm trying really hard to post every week or two. Thanks to those who reviewed. I am so sorry to have kept you waiting fro so long, but all of the voices in my head stopped talking to me for a while, and I had to wait until they resumed their chatter. They're back with a vengeance now, so have no fear.

A/NII: Of course I don't own it

He jumped to his feet, wand at the ready, all vestiges of the sleep he had been enjoying already erased from his memory. There was someone outside.

The time had come. His mind leaped from caution, to mild fear, to the burning ache of betrayal. She had told. He had trusted her as his Secret Keeper, and now the time had come to see whether that trust had been well founded. It was time to see if she could bear the burden he had given her to carry. He breathed deeply, trying to keep the quickening of his heartbeat from leading him to certain disaster. No matter what she had done, it must be dealt with now.

Quietly, he slipped towards the entrance to the cabin he had been inhabiting for the past few months. The rapping at the front door grew louder seeming to match the tempo of the pounding in his head. He stepped closer, peering through the peephole, wondering if his doom or his destiny would be staring him in the face.

It was Ron Weasley.

Quickly, he pulled open the door and ushered his former student in, The boy looked sullen and murderous, prompting Severus to keep his hand securely attached to his wand.

"So," the younger man said, "This is where you've come to hide out. Nice place. Much too good for you, considering the mess you've left behind."

Snape felt a fire rising inside, and pushed himself to suppress it. "It suits my purpose," he said neutrally, not knowing how much the boy knew. His eyes met Ron's coolly.

"Which purpose? Ruining lives or saving your own sorry arse?"

Snape adopted his silkiest teaching voice. "I am going to pretend I heard none of that, Mr. Weasley. I assure you that I am here at the request of my wife, regardless of what other sinister scenarios you may have dreamt up in that wretchedly feeble mind you have always been cursed with." He watched the boy blanche visibly and his lips curled back slightly. "Now, what are you doing here?"

Ron seemed to have lost all of his fighting spirit for the moment, and reverted back to being a thickheaded schoolboy. "I, uh, Hermione sent me."

"Did she now?" Snape asked, hands clasped behind his back. It was time to see how much she had told him. "Why?"

"She wanted me to give you a message." Ron's face was now as red as his hair. He pulled a slip of parchment from inside of his too-short robes after fumbling through each of his pockets for a short time. Snape snatched it away from him, trying not to cringe at the pieces of lint dangling from the edges.

The scroll was still magically sealed. The older man turned his back on the younger and began to read, confident that only he and Hermione were aware of the contents. As he scanned over the page, he felt eyes boring into the back of his skull. Snapping around, he hastily pushed the parchment behind him and found himself standing toe-to-toe with Ron, who gulped mightily.

"What does it say?" Ron looked at his former professor as though he actually expected him to answer. So, he knew nothing. He wondered if that was going to make matters easier.

Snape smiled in that cruel, thin-lipped way he had. "The parchment was addressed to _me_, Mr. Weasley. I am fully confident that if Hermione had wanted to divulge the contents to you, she would have taken care to do so." Working his fingers out of the red-head's sight, Snape re-rolled the message and stuck it inside the back pocket of his pants. He always slept fully clothed in what he thought to be muggle regalia now, waiting to be discovered and forced to flee from his hideout.

Ron glared at him menacingly, but said nothing further, instead moving towards the ragged sofa and flopping down upon it as though the cottage were his own. "What are you doing, Weasley?" Snape asked sharply.

"Staying the night. It's late and bloody cold outside." He looked at the dank, chilly area disapprovingly and added, "Not that it's much better in here."

"I only have one room," Snape glowered, backing towards the cot as though to claim it for his own.

Ron shrugged. "I just want to get some sleep. The couch, it that's what this is, is fine." He sank further down in the worn cushions, trying to knead a lumpy pillow into a more comfortable shape.

Snape hovered near his cot uncomfortably. He despised visitors, but could hardly kick the boy out after he had delivered Hermione's message. Perhaps he needed to stay. Perhaps this was all part of the Prophecy. The just of it was clear, but the details were somewhat murky. "Fine, stay," he snarled at last, "but don't complain as though I invited you if things aren't to your liking." He started to rearrange his bed and prepare to drift back to sleep when Ron's angry commentary halted him in his tracks.

"Trust me, Snape, if I had a quarrel with you it wouldn't be over how comfortable your couch is." There was poison in the young man's voice.

"Oh," Snape said neutrally, raising one eyebrow slightly, "and if you were to engage in this hypothetical quarrel, what, per say, would be the subject matter?"

Ron looked at him as though his fondest wish were for the sallow man to die. "I think you know," he said in a voice that was little more than a cold whisper.

"Try me," Snape said dryly. He had learned long ago not to sink further than was necessary by revealing too much too soon.

"Hermione," Ron said simply, his voice a curious mixture of pity and loathing.

To Snape, Ron's pity for his wife was worse than the young man's loathing of him. "What about Hermione?" Snape challenged him. He was used to this kind of reaction to his marriage with the girl, and had long since become bored with the circular, futile arguments surrounding it.

Ron looked at him much as he would vermin. "You ruined her life, you great selfish bat. How you brainwashed her into marrying you, I don't know. Whatever you did, it's sick!"

"There was no "brainwashing" involved," Snape replied smoothly, "unless the simple statement of a shared destiny and her acknowledgement of the same construes what you so ineloquently deem _brainwashing_."

"If this has something to do with that stupid Prophecy again, I think you've both gone nutters." Ron's eyes were large again, and he shook his head. "Muggles might believe in Trewlawney's rubbish, but after five years of sitting in her classroom the only thing I can believe is that you must be touched in the head."

Snape shook his head slightly. So, he knew of the Prophecy's existence, but obviously was unaware of the contents. If he knew, Snape was certain there would have been at least a mild note of alarm in his voice, even if he didn't really believe. "That's where you're wrong, Mr. Weasley," he replied sleekly, not missing a beat. "Perhaps if you possessed the subtlety and had been blessed with a competent Divination instructor for any length of time you would not find all aspects of the subject so trivial."

Ron snorted. "Even so, Hermione dropped out of Trewlawney's class because she thought it was useless. Why would she suddenly start believing?"

"Because," Snape said with a self-important smirk curling his pale lips, "I showed her the true power of Divination." All traces of his callous humor melted away as he continued. "Perhaps the one area of magic in which many muggles have excelled is a form of Divination. They may, in general denounce psychic visions, things known as tarot readings, and a sort of celestial calendar they have developed known as the Zodiac as items for entertainment not to be taken seriously, which they largely are. However, most muggles believe in a concept they have termed fate with a ferocity wizard-kind can only dimly understand.

"Many muggles believe that their lives, at least in part, are pre-ordained. They are born, they try to find their _place_ or their _purpose_, they make their way as best they can without magic, and they die. Along the way as things happen to them they note that "it was destiny", "we were meant to be together", "everything happens for a reason", and that "it's God's will"."

Ron waved him off impatiently. "I don't see what this has to do with Hermione, or with Divination, for that matter."

"Patience has never been one of your few virtues, Weasley," Snape said smoothly, and then continued as though the young man had not spoken. "Because of the muggle fascination with a higher power running their otherwise mundane lives, they have little need of the Prophecies, and tend to follow their own instincts for direction. Wizards, however, take a little more convincing. That is the purpose of the Prophecies."

Ron looked thoroughly bewildered. "I've always suspected you were touched in the head. Now I know."

Snape ignored him. "Wizards, in general, believe that the understanding of magic gives them more control over their own lives than muggles could ever hope to achieve. As a lot, we need convincing. The purpose of the Prophecies is to convince us to turn down another path in order to fulfill the destiny intended for us, as well as to help us take our part in the ultimate design of Wizard-kind.

"Prophecies are delivered to Seers and then recorded in the memories of those they are told to. When news of the event reaches the Ministry or any knowledgeable, qualified wizard in some way, the Prophecy is relegated to a storage container, labeled, and, as you witnessed three years ago, stored in the Ministry's Department of Mysteries. At some appropriate point, the person to whom the Prophecy pertains is shown the memory and they can do with it as they choose."

"Assuming I believe you," Ron said, still looking thoroughly incredulous, "what happens if the Prophecy goes unfulfilled?"

Snape shrugged. "Many wizards choose to ignore the destiny designed for them. Sometimes the consequences are dire, sometimes they are non-existent. Many wizards do believe and many do not. By the same token, many muggles do not believe in the concept of destiny. I have my own reasons to accept it."

"And you're saying Hermione does believe in all of this?"

"Very strongly," Snape said firmly. "I gave her reason to, explained the process to her logically, and provided examples. When I showed her the Prophecy pertaining to our union, she accepted it. Unfortunately for you, she understood."

"What was in the letter, Hermione?" Ron apperated beside her the morning after he had delivered the scrap of parchment to Snape with a soft pop. She was smiling, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Did you give it to him?" She asked him anxiously, looking up and meeting his eyes.

"Of course I did. You asked me to." He sounded as though he were begging for her praise. She turned away, nodding slightly, and resumed eating a bowl of lumpy oatmeal, a slight frown of worry casting darkness across her face.

Sighing, Ron sat down in the empty chair beside her. "Where's Harry?"

"Quidditch practice. They have a match next weekend."

"Will he be back?"

"This afternoon." Ron had found communicating with her difficult since she had come out of her torpor. She said little and offered nothing. He remembered the way her speech used to captivate him. Now he was sickened by the emptiness between them.

"Hermione, I have to know what the Prophecy is." He didn't really expect her to answer. He had already asked so many times.

"Why?" She looked straight into his eyes for the second time that morning, her gaze full of pity. He wondered why she should pity him.

He sighed, running a hand through his scraggily red hair. "I know it concerns me."

Suddenly, she jerked back as though bitten. "H-how…how do you know that?" She sounded both defensive and mortified, her face as pale as the full moon.

"Snape told me, in a round about way." He shrugged. "I just want to know. I think I have some right to, now."

"You don't want to know." There was a distinct finality to her voice that almost stopped his probing.

"None of this makes any sense, Hermione," he said, pushing onward, his voice growing stronger as he spoke. "I've done everything you asked me to, and you still won't give me anything in return."

She sat on the edge of the stool, grasping her bushy hair in her hands and tugging on it as she gently rocked back and forth, her face hidden from his view. "Tell me," he said, suddenly feeling no pity for her and not understanding why.

"No," she said softly, "I can't."  
He looked away from her, strolling over to the window and gazing across the yard. "You have to, Hermione."

She said nothing. Angry, he slammed his fist down on the counter, banging his wrist severely. He rounded on her, eyes flashing fire, his skin seeming to crawl with the pain inside of him , a pain he felt would never heal. He was destructing, and his temper was reacting. The walls of his mind were closing in from the emotional pressure, and he couldn't seem to find himself again. He wanted to grab her, shake her, anything that would bring forth the answer, anything that would make sense of the scenario he had unwittingly stumbled into. "You have to tell me the truth. Now." He shivered at the cold in his voice.

She looked up at him, her eyes large and intrigued. "You really want to know?"

"That's what I said, wasn't it?" Poison dripped from his voice.

She sighed, looking as though she would like nothing better than to run away and never say goodbye. "Then you had better sit down."

He yanked a chair away from the table rather harder than he meant to and fell into it, his eyes never leaving her for fear that she would disappear if he looked away. "Well," he snapped a moment later when she had done nothing but gawk at him strangely.

She sighed and leaned forward. Her voice sounded sad, as though she were sending him to his doom. Her eyes were haunted, a flicker of the girl he once knew looking out at him, trapped within the woman before him who he didn't even know. "I suggest," she said in a voice that was little more than a whisper, "that you open up your mind."

_ "Detention again?" Ron asked incredulously, his red eyebrows arched condescendingly as he peered down his freckled nose at her. "What was it this time? I forget, there've been so many lately."_

_ "I was helping Neville correct his potion," she said primly, gathering some books, quills, and parchment as she rose from the squashy maroon couch before the common room fire._

_ "Neville," Ron scoffed, almost laughing. "How he ever got into NEWT Potions, I don't even know. His Grandmother must have paid his way in."_

_ She scowled at him. "Neville passed his OWL for Potions with a much higher score than _you_. All he needed was a kind examiner who showed some confidence in him to work for instead of Snape."_

_ "Whatever," Ron mumbled. "You still have to help him so he can pass. That has to mean something."_

_ "I have to help you so you can pass every class you have," she said nastily, fuming as she stormed her way to the portrait hole._

_ Minutes later, she knocked on the heavy oak door that led into Snape's dungeon. "Come in," came the silky voice she had come to anticipate more than dread._

_ He looked up as she entered. His face was neutral, but he no longer scowled at the sight of her. She smiled wanly, wending her way to a torturous looking chair he had pulled to the opposite side of his gothic style desk._

_ "Much work tonight?" he asked her, looking up from the essays he was grading just long enough to make momentary eyes contact with her._

_ "A little. I finished everything but Transfiguration, and I have six inches left to complete the essay you assigned for next week." She opened her Transfiguration book, unrolled a clean parchment, and inked her quill. She scribbled quietly for a few moments before asking, "Can you do human transfiguration?"_

_ "I never cared to," he replied curtly, not looking up at her._

_ "If you did, though, what kind of anamagi would you be?" she pressed._

_ "I don't know. Something creepy, I suspect," he said dryly. _

_ She giggled quietly. "I wonder what I'll be transfiguring into."_

_ Snape looked up blandly. "I didn't know Professor McGonagle taught human transfiguration."_

_ "She normally just teaches the basics. You know, incomplete forms, like just the head and maybe the limbs for practical purposes. Most of it's theory and only the written work appears on the end-of-year exam. As I studied the theory and considered all of the practical applications I became interested in learning about more than partial transfiguration. I approached Professor McGonagle about learning the complete process and she was amenable to the idea, so long as I was memorizing all of the written theory as well. Now 'm doing it as sort of an independent study."_

_ "Mm," Snape replied, marking in red on an essay and tossing it in a pile on the side._

_ "Did you listen to anything I said?" she asked, exasperated._

_ He looked at her again, but said nothing. She sighed and went back to her work, ignoring him and wondering why she tried again and again to be civil when he made it so impossible._

_ "Finished yet?" he asked her nearly an hour later._

_ "I was waiting for you," she said, a trace of the earlier acid still alive on her tongue. He shrugged, pushing the essays into boxes, one for each of his classes. She stowed her materials beneath the desk in a small, neat pile._

_ "So," she said steeping her fingers on the varnished wood, "why am I here tonight?" This way their ritual now. She came under the pretext of detention, did homework as he graded, and then they talked._

_ He had approached her earlier in the year, building her trust and confidence in him. All of their meetings had started on the pretext of detention. At first, she had been resentful of the way he had continually singled her out for punishment in lieu of other, far more worthy, candidates. She wondered how it must look for the Hogwarts Head Girl to be in detention for the highest NEWT level Potions class on disciplinary infractions almost nightly._

_ The detentions had had an unusual quality of informality about them from the very beginning. Instead of forcing some gruesome task upon her, Snape had always permitted her to complete any unfinished homework. At times, he even offered her needed assistance with the more difficult material._

_ One night late in October, he had directed her to a chair on the other side of his own desk. She had sat uncomfortably at first, wondering what it was he wanted from her. He had worked on his essays as usual, and she had taken that as a cue to continue her routine as well. Glancing up often, she had quickly scribbled out two rolls of Charms parchment waiting for him to speak. At last he had laid his work aside and asked her to do the same._

_ "I would like to speak to you in regard to a very important matter." He had paused, looking at her as though he were critically evaluating the composition of a potion some student had presented him for grading. She had felt like a display case and had shown her displeasure at such goings on by glaring at him. He had continued staring until she had spoken at last._

_ "Were you waiting for me to say something?"_

_ Snape's eyes had met hers, his concentration momentarily shaken by her barbed tongue. "I want to speak with you about the future."_

_ Stunned, she had fallen back against the seat, not knowing what to say. Unlike many of the other students, she was not averse to advice from her Professors. She would have never expected it from this particular professor, however. "What about it?" she had replied, to bewildered to come up with a more clever interrogation._

_ Snape had spent the next fifteen minutes sharing his views on muggle fortune telling with her before dismissing her for the evening. Puzzled but relieved, she had not said anything to him in regard to his strange behavior that evening, nor did she on several subsequent visits when the same sort of exchange taken place._

_ She had failed to notice the way in which she had taken to occupying the chair across from Snape, which had always come to be waiting for her. Over time and so subtly that it had almost gone unrecognized, her vies on Divination and the future had begun to change as well._

_ During their talks, Snape had shown her that Wizards had ways of predicting the future that were far more reliable that anything Trewlawny had ever presented in the few classes she had attended. Their ritual had continued until now, midwinter, and she had come to believe in the Prophecies with nearly as much devotion as she did the exactness of potions making or the reliability of correctly cast charms._

_ "I wanted to share and actual Prophecy with you," Snape said rolling back his sleeves and flicking his wand to summon a shiny obsidian basin. Harry had told her about a similar device, only of granite gray, called a pensive in which he had encountered the memories of both Dumbledore and Snape. She assumed the latter had at last gotten his own._

_ "Sir, I thought you said that all Prophecies were stored in only two places: the Department of Mysteries and the memories of those to whom they were told." She swallowed self-consciously, not quite meeting his eyes. "I assume that this is the latter."_

_ "No," said Snape._

_ "But the pensive, Professor," she trailed off as he put his thick wand to his ear and pulled out a string of silvery material. She wondered with a slight shudder how greasy his wand was now._

_ "I told you that there were only two ways in which the Prophecies were accessible, and, in general, that rule holds fast." He stopped speaking for a moment and looked up at her, his gaze steady though neutral. "Your deduction of my intended use of the pensive would undoubtedly be accurate in almost any imaginable scenario. In this case, however, you are inaccurate."_

_ "How so?" she asked, her mind clicking over to the scientific machine of logic an analysis it so often operated as._

_ Snape thinned his lips slightly, looking as though he were trying not to smile. "You were unfairly given inadequate information as to the Prophecy in question, I'm afraid. You see, _I _am the subject. Dumbledore knew of it and took me to the Ministry so that I could listen."_

_ She frowned, biting down slightly on her lower lip. "So, what you said about only those to whom the Prophecy is told and those to whom it pertains being able to hear it wasn't totally accurate" She cocked an eyebrow up, teasing._

_ "I never said that the information couldn't be passed along through word of mouth," he retorted, a touch of vinegar on his tongue. She blushed slightly and he continued. "At any rate, even that fact is moot in this case."_

_ "What do you mean?"_

_ "I mean that this little display is not an invasion of my privacy. Were I to take you to the room in the Department of Mysteries which you visited with Mr. Potter at the end of your fifth year, you too could listen to the recording."_

_ "It concerns me?" she concluded somewhat thickly._

_ Snape merely shook his head as though dismayed and beckoned her forward with one of his white spidery fingers. She leaned in towards him and he directed her top place her face upon the mist rising from the bowl. Suddenly, she felt his cold hand clasp around hers and she jerked back, startled. "It's alright, Hermione," he said softly, uncharacteristic warmth in both his eyes and his voice. "You must trust me." His hand never left hers._

_ She nodded and leaned forward, taking a deep breath as her face passed below the mist._

_ She saw Snape coming into focus beside Professor Dumbledore. She waved, but was ignored. Remembering the way in which Harry had described his trips into the pensive she stepped in close to them, knowing she could see and hear everything without any risk of discovery. She was merely an observer of the memory._

_ "It should be just down this aisle, Severus," Dumbledore said, ushering the greasy looking professor along through the stacked rows of Prophecies that lined every available shelf in the room._

_ Snape spoke in a hushed voice, looking as though he had swallowed a lemon. "Tell me again how you know about this, Sir."_

_ "Our Centaur friend, Firenze," the Headmaster replied in that benign way of his._

_They walked further down the aisle in silence, Dumbledore offering no further explanation and Snape failing to beg for one. She could feel herself growing nervous._

_ "Ah," Dumbledore said at last, stopping before one of the shelving units and looking skyward. "If Firenze is correct, we have arrived. He reached up just above his head, pointing a gnarled finger at one of the countless shiny globes. "Well, Severus," he said, "that should be the one." He watched as Snape reached up and pulled the object down and then walked off, affording the man a bit of privacy while at the same time forcing him to deal with the Prophecy's contents alone._

_ Snape sighed slightly, and then coiled one of his hands around the spherical top of the Prophecy. He tapped it with his wand, whispering, "Reveal your secrets." For a moment, nothing happened, the Snape jumped as though he had been burned, nearly dropping the globe to the floor._

_ From everywhere at once, a voice reverberated, clear and resonant. She stepped in close, simultaneously eager and terrified._

**"She is young; he is not.**

**The one who betrayed the Light then turned traitor to the Dark will soon be betrayed by his past.**

**Only the vows of marriage, taken with the muggle-born friend of the one he hates most can allay the fate assigned to him.**

**Only the one she loves can be sacrificed to save them both.**

**Only their union has the power to stave off mass destruction."**

_ She needed only to look into the memory Snape's face for all that she had heard to click. "Merlin's beard," she whispered as she saw, as she understood._

_ She pitched forward felling nauseous, weak and alone. She was certain she would have fainted had she not crashed into the bottom of the basin, smacking her forehead severely and forcing her to jerk away and back into her own reality; a reality that now seemed strange and unfamiliar._

_ "I am young and you are not," she said softly, the words of the Prophecy already forever etched upon her memory._

_ Snape picked up the next line. Their hands were still joined, but she suddenly found that she did not care. "It was I who betrayed the Light and turned traitor to the Dark. It appears my demons will soon come home to roost." He stroked the back of her hand softly and squeezed as though offering her strength and comfort then continued. "Only the vows of marriage with the muggle-born friend of Harry Potter can change my fate."_

_ She was frightened as much by the tender way he was treating her as she was by the words she knew she must speak. She could live with talking, with homework help, even with a strange sort of friendship, but not with intimacy and not without Ron. "Only Ron Weasley can be sacrificed to save us both." She left her hand in his to show the assent in her next words. "Only our union has the power to stave off mass destruction."_

She finished relaying the memory to him and he stared, awed not only by the words she had spoken, but by the audacity she had shown in keeping such a monstrous declaration from him all of this time. He had been the one she had loved. Moreover, he was about to be sacrificed because of it. He didn't know what to say. He couldn't even look at her.

"Ron," she whispered softly as though afraid that her speech would set off a ticking bomb. He said nothing, just stared into the tabletop, trying to find the answers in the scrubbed wood grain.

Slowly, he began to shake his head. He had always said he would give anything for her to love him. He wondered if he would have felt that way if he had known that her love would cost him the ultimate price.

"Why?" He said simply. Why hadn't she told him? Why had she allowed herself to believe? Why, if she had to love him, couldn't he have been a part of her life? HE felt himself drowning in despair, rose from the table, and poured himself a spot of vodka, rather more than he usually allowed. Without adding anything, he drank it down and poured another. He wished to fade into oblivion. He wished to die.

"I don't know," she replied, her voice shaky and quiet, like a breeze giving way to the chill of a spring rain shower. He wondered which of his questions she had been answering. All of them, he decided.

Rage began to take the place of the numbness that had earlier chilled his veins, throbbing through his being like fire melting away ice. He spun towards her, looking at her face for the first time. She looked pitiful and weak. He felt his anger rising at her vulnerability. For a moment, he hated her. "What do you mean you don't know," he spat, slamming the glass down on the wooden surface. It broke, and the shards left deep lacerations on his hands. He watched the blood pouring from him, trails of crimson rage, sorrow, and hopelessness fusing with the clear puddles on the table.

She cast a little spell with a wave of her wand, cleaning the mess and healing his hand. He didn't thank her. The damage she had done couldn't be repaired so easily. She had wounded him so deeply; he felt the scars upon his heart could never heal. The pain inside him was hot, throbbing, and more real than anything he had ever experienced. He felt sick.

She moved her hand towards his as though to offer him comfort with her touch. He pulled away, jumping back as though bitten. "Don't touch me," he said, his voice calm and dangerous. "You haven't any right."

He turned away from her open-mouthed look of horror and stomped up the stairs, locking himself in his room. His profound love for her had died and been replaced with a hate stronger than anything he had ever known.

He wanted to be alone.

He wanted to mourn his love for her.

He wanted, more than anything, to die.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Thanks to all who reviewed. I appreciate it more than you could know.

The darkness seemed to envelop him as he ascended a small flight of gray stone steps to the manor, his head down and his jacket collar turned up. He didn't want to be seen here.

Glancing around him furtively, he raised his hand to the brass doorknocker and clenched his nimble fingers around the brass serpent. He shuddered slightly as the pounding of metal on metal seemed to echo across the static lawn behind him. He wasn't much for snakes anymore.

The door creaked open slightly, revealing a vacant looking woman sheathed in gauzy layers of black material. Harry supposed that once upon a time she had been perhaps been beautiful. Maybe there had once been a light in her eyes. Blanching slightly, he looked away, thinking of Hermione and just how close she had been to becoming the figure before him.

"Hello," she said dreamily, looking not so much at as through him. She could have just as easily been conversing with the wall. She smiled politely and walked towards the heart of the ground floor, Harry following in her wake, his heart heavy with a sadness he couldn't quite explain. It could have been Hermione. She had been so close…

The man he had come to call upon was seated on a bottle green leather couch, perhaps a tribute to his former House, a drink in one hand, the other resting at his side. Harry wondered where the blonde man's wand was hidden, and felt a rising reassurance as his dug in against his ribs.

He stood facing the man, his expression carefully neutral. He couldn't believe he was here, couldn't believe that the man seated across from him had agreed to see him. Most of all, he couldn't believe that Lucius Malfoy would dare to look him in the eye the way he was doing now.

"Mr. Potter," he drawled, letting the name roll about over his tongue as though savoring it. "We meet again." He made no move to shake Harry's hand, just leaned back against the cushions, sipping his drink and looking totally at ease and in command of the situation.

"Mr. Malfoy," Harry said simply, trying to quell the surge of hate the mere sound sent breaking through him. He may have hated the man before him and all that he represented, but, right now, he needed him.

"You may wonder," the older man said casually, "why I have agreed to see you here?"

Harry looked at him, his eyes never wavering. The blonde woman who had admitted him sat down next to Lucius, the vacant expression never leaving her face. She smiled slightly and began to hum. Malfoy glared at her, but she seemed oblivious and just sat there, rocking back and forth as she hummed her wordless tune.

At last, Malfoy spoke again. "My i_mage_, shall we say, has suffered a bit, I am afraid, since the fall of the Dark Lord. When word reached me that you would like a meeting, I felt it would be ill advised for me to turn down your request." He sighed haughtily, his voice thoroughly annoyed as he continued, "You might be very public in your denunciations of me were I not to graciously offer you my hospitality. I daresay that public opinion of you is very high at this point."

Harry said nothing, just continued to stare, feeling as though he still held the upper hand and unwilling to give it up just yet.

"What are you doing here?" Malfoy asked at last, a slight crack in his smooth voice. Harry remembered those eyes peering at him through the slits of a Death Eater's hood and bristled slightly before claming himself once more. Those days were over. Voldemort had fallen, and now only a handful of his supporters, those with enough gold to influence the Ministry's policy on punishment, were left at large, and even they were alienated from one another by an unwillingness to completely besmirch their names.

"I'm looking for answers."

Malfoy shrugged, continuing to sip his drink serenely. Harry still had not spotted where the other man was hiding his wand. "I have no idea what you're talking about, I'm afraid," the blond drawled at last.

"What is Draco doing at Hogwarts?"

Harry thought he spotted a malicious glimmer in Malfoy's eyes, but it was gone in less than a moment. Lucius shook his head, a tight sort of smile on his face. "Jealous are we of my son's appointment? Think everything should be yours, Potter, just because most of the world believes you're a hero?" The malicious gleam was back in his cold gray eyes. Harry said nothing. The words were meaningless.

Lucius waited a moment before speaking again. "Just because fame bought you a spot on some second rate quidditch team doesn't mean that it can bring you everything. Certainly it hasn't made up for the abysmal marks you obtained while at Hogwarts, has it?"

"My marks are none of your business, Mr. Malfoy, and in case you haven't checked lately, Oxfordshire is ranked third in the league." He stopped for a moment, letting his cold voice chill the air a bit before continuing. "That doesn't matter now, though. I just want to know why Draco is at Hogwarts."

Malfoy's face contorted into a hybrid of malevolence and glee. "It seems that, due to unfortunate circumstances, there was an opening for that particular position. Draco, being the good citizen that he was raised to be, offered to step in and fill the post." He shrugged. "I don't know why it's any of your concern."

"He doesn't want to be there." There was no sympathy for his long time nemesis in his voice, only the chilling revelation of fact. Somewhere, there was a reason. Draco had all but told him as much. He just had to keep his temper long enough to find it. He willed himself not to think of the destruction, the lives lost, the hopes shattered as he held the gaze of the steely eyes before him. He willed himself to breath, willed himself to be calm.

Lucius raised his eyebrows slightly, just slightly, as though the statement had caught him off guard, and then pursed his lips, replying. "I suppose we all must do things we don't want to now and then. Surely, you of all people must realize that."

"Voldemort murdered my parents." He felt a cruel sort of glee leaping through his stomach at the contortion of Malfoy's face at the mention of his former master's name. "He deserved everything he got. I never wanted to kill anyone, Mr. Malfoy, but I had only one choice if I wanted to live, and one choice is no choice." He tried not to turn away, tried not to relive the pain, not to succumb to the nightmare. Breath. Steady. His glance never wavered.

"No matter," said Malfoy smoothly, letting the subject lull itself away. The woman continued to hum, looking as though she had taken no notice of the heated exchange before her. Harry wondered how long she had been this way. "Draco is at Hogwarts now, and doing an admirable job, so I am told. With any luck, the position will become permanent."

Harry looked at him in askance. "Why would that be luck? Draco doesn't want to be there, and that would mean that Snape wouldn't be returning."

Lucius shrugged. "Draco must do my bidding for me now and then, Mr. Potter. I gave him life. He owes me that much. For now, that means returning to Hogwarts to restore our good name. As for Severus, I am afraid his retirement may have come early." He leaned back and sipped his drink again. The woman beside him had stopped humming and stared off into the distance, her cornflower blue eyes meeting Harry's for the briefest of moments. He would have sworn something had flashed inside of her.

Minutes passed in silence. Lucius finished his drink, never looking away from The Boy Who Lived. "Was there anything else, Mr. Potter?" His voice had a cold, formal sort of finality to it that matched perfectly the aura of the room.

"If you had anything to do with Snape…" Harry let his voice trail off, not caring about the man in question so much as about Hermione. No one knew he was here tonight. He had hoped to bring them a morsel of news, and despaired that he would be walking away with nothing more than he had entered with.

Lucius arched his eyebrows once more. "I have much to do with many things, Mr. Potter, but you would have incredible difficulty proving it. Good day, Mr. Potter. Narcissa, show him out."

Draco Malfoy's mother rose daintily to her feet, seeming as though she were floating and somehow ethereal. She swept from the room without a backwards glance, Harry following in her wake, feeling awkward and revoltingly stupid in the presence of such sadness. He wondered what Lucius Malfoy had done to her.

The door opened as though it had decided to do so of its own accord. Harry, not knowing quite how to act, waved slightly, wondering just how far gone the woman before him was. For a moment, he felt a twinge of empathy for Draco. He turned his back to leave when a faint whisper, soft as the spring breeze halted him.

"He's going to kill someone. I don't remember who. Someone, though. A friend." She smiled as she said this, her eyes mostly vacuous, but glimmering with the slightest fire of life. A moment later, the ember was gone and she looked much as she had before. "Were you coming or going?" she asked as he stood in the threshold of the manor, rooted by a pity such as he had never before felt."

"Going." He said firmly, turning away from the terrible sight in the door. She seemed beautiful no more, just empty, hopeless and defeated, bound to the home she lived in by the bars of her own soul. Were you coming or going? She was just there. He felt soiled, somehow, and hurried across the lawn, glad that he, unlike her, had been given that choice.

"It's Malfoy," Harry said, sprinting into the kitchen that evening, surprised to find Hermione alone at the table. "Where's Ron?" He added as an after thought.

"Upstairs," she said glumly. Her hair, which she had taken to fixing since rising from the ashes of her depression once again hung in lank, unkempt strands about her sunken face. Her eyes were tinged with red as though she had been crying heavily.

"What's he doing there?" Ron had graciously continued to sleep on the couch, leaving Hermione his room.

She didn't answer, just looked away and blushed. "I think you'll have to ask him," she said finally, a hint of a crack in her soft voice.

Harry shrugged slightly, intending to go up later. "I want to Malfoy's house this afternoon after practice and talked to his father. I know it's him that's trying to kill Snape. He didn't tell me, but I know."

Hermione didn't look up, just stared into the teacup she was sipping from. "I know that, Harry."

He felt a flush rising in his cheeks that was a mixture of embarrassment and fury. "If you knew, then why didn't you tell me? It would have saved me a bit of trouble." His eyes glinted hard and jade-like in the soft evening light of the room.

She said nothing, just traced the rim of her cup with her index finger, looking as though she were torn between tears and apathy. He moved back slightly, not wanting to watch her crumble away to dust once again. He felt a surge of fury at her sudden delicacy. She had always been strong and brave, a worthy Gryffindor.

He heard footsteps creaking through the living room and looked up as Ron came tottering in, a glass held loosely in one hand and the smell of alcohol stale on his breath. His hair was mussed to one side as though he had slept upon it, and his clothes were wrinkled and disheveled. He too appeared to have been crying.

"Would someone like to tell me what's been going on?" Harry asked, now feeling thoroughly put out and just a bit anxious. He was certain that it wasn't good news.

Ron looked at him, a stranger in his eyes. Harry couldn't even see his friend, so deeply was he buried beneath the psychotic rage that flashed from his liquid brown pupils. "No sense in asking her, mate," he slurred slightly, wobbling until he reached the countertop where he could brace himself. "She wouldn't even tell you if you were about to die." He upended the glass and gulped as though there were still something in its dry bottom.

Hermione made a slight whimpering sound, but said nothing.

"What are you talking about, Ron?" Harry touched the red head's shoulder, trying to ground him. He wondered if this was real or the alcohol talking. Gently, he tried to pry the glass away but found he wasn't strong enough. Ron clutched it like a lifeline, his eyes still glinting crazily.

"Go on Hermione, tell Harry the universe's plan for me." He looked as though he wanted to spit on her and she cringed, drawing her chair away from him slightly. "Go on," he prompted her, looking slightly more lucid and sane. Harry continued to hold his arm.

"It was a Prophecy," Hermione pleaded to him, begging him to empathize. He had told his friends all about the Prophecy concerning him and Voldemort before that terrible final battle had taken place. Perhaps she felt that he, above all others, should believe. In that hope, she was correct.

"What was the Prophecy, Hermione?" Harry asked her gently, not wanting to upset anyone further. Ron still looked as though he were moments away from going completely mad, and Hermione looked like a caged animal cringing in the corner.

"Yeah, Hermione," Ron sang out, sounding almost jovial. "Tell us about the Prophecy again. I'm just _dying_ to hear."

She moved her lips, but spoke so quietly that Harry could not hear. Releasing Ron, he stepped forward and knelt in front of her chair. "Please say it again," he said, trying to ignore Ron's grunting in the background. He, Harry, was going to destroy every bottle of alcohol in the house before the night was over.

She looked up at him as though haunted, and whispered the words to him. Her voice took on a husky quality, cold and biting as though she were speaking from beyond the grave. Harry felt a chill sliding down his spine and didn't know which of the two to feel sorrier for: Hermione for living with that terrible secret or Ron, whom he knew must be the one she loved, for never knowing.

"Oh," he said stupidly. The silence was absolute. Hermione continued to cringe. Ron went on glaring. Harry sat dumbly, all powers of speech seeming to have left him.

At last, Harry spoke, telling them of his visit to Lucius Malfoy. "So it has to be him that's trying to kill Snape," he concluded at last, hoping that Hermione wouldn't say that she already knew as much and send Ron into another rage. He sighed to himself, relieved, as she remained silent.

"Great," Ron said. "Now I don't only know that I'm going to die to save people who aren't even worth saving, I know who's probably going to kill me, too." Not dropping his glass, he swept from the room, pounding up the stairs and slamming the door to his room.

Hermione looked stunned and horrified. Harry didn't even know what to say, he just opened all of the cabinets and poured the contents of every liquor bottle in the Weasley household down the drain in the stainless steel kitchen sink.

Snarling, he ripped the Chudley Cannons bed sheet away from his mattress, tearing one corner on the sharp edge of his metal bed frame as he threw the material into a heap in front of his closet. He went around the room in similar fashion, upending a chair, knocking a dresser askew, destroying knickknacks. Somehow, none of it was therapy to him. He felt ashamed of himself when he was finished and sat down on the edge of the bare mattress, his head in his hands, and wept.

She was gone. Whoever the girl downstairs was, it was not Hermione Granger. Not as he remembered her anyway. This girl was deceitful and selfish. Cunning, like the man she had married. How long had she known? From the very beginning? Had their whole relationship, that angry, resentful love that was never acknowledged as love, been a farce, a cosmic joke on him? Had she chosen him to love because she knew that the one she loved must also be the one to die? Had she wanted him to die? How long?

He felt as though the walls of the Burrow were crashing in around him, collapsing and suffocating his bleeding heart. His chest hurt, pressure building inside as though he were about to explode with a tremendous scream of pain and rage. He bit his lip until he drew the coppery taste of blood and continued to bite down. Somehow, the pain made him hurt a little less.

The pounding of his heart beat a vicious tattoo in his head. He was on a runaway train with no one at the helm. Things were unraveling faster and faster. He hated Snape, always had. He loved the memory of Hermione. He hated Hermione herself. He was alone and drowning.

There was a soft knock on the door. He ignored it, hoping that whoever was outside would walk away, leaving him to grieve in peace. He wanted a drink, but he lacked the will to get up and make it. He wondered how easy it would be to just fade away into nothingness.

The knocking grew more insistent, until it seemed to surround him, coming from everywhere at once. The room was closing in around him again. He put his hands over his ears and screamed permission for the visitor to enter, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, his mind tottering precariously on the edge of reason.

"Ron?"

He clamped his hands tighter, squeezed his face tighter. He couldn't answer, couldn't look. The pain was taking over.

He felt a hand seizing around his wrist, freeing his ears. Slowly, he unscrewed his face and looked into a pair of emerald eyes. "Harry," he whispered softly, as though the man before him were nothing more than an apparition.

Harry shook his head slightly, a strand of his always messy black hair falling into his eyes. Unconsciously, he brushed it back, letting go of Ron's arm. The red head made no move to cover his ears again. He had been freed from the darkness inside, if only for a moment. "Do you want to talk about it?" Harry asked softly, concern dripping from his voice.

"I can't," Ron replied, a blush creeping into his cheeks. "I don't know what to say." He looked down at the mattress, stained and yellowed by the years of poverty it had seen. He picked at a small ball of lint, flicking it away to the floor. "It hurts," he abridged his feelings as though he were referencing a skinned knee rather than his heart. It had never hurt so deeply.

Harry said nothing, just sat stoically beside him, lending him comfort with his presence. He, too, was picking lint balls away from the mattress. "You ripped your sheet," he replied at last.

"It doesn't matter," Ron murmured. "It was old." It was part of another life, a life where he might have been happy. "It's funny," he said after a while. The sky was growing light again, the first hints of day peeking over the horizon. Still, everything was bathed in blurry shades of gray. It would be some time yet before enough light was diffused to define colors and edges.

"What is?" Harry prompted him.

"I always envied you, you know. I knew your life was hard, but I wanted it because it was, you know, different. Special. You were born with a purpose. I never felt like I really had one. I was just another poor, redheaded Weasley. Nothing I ever did was special. I felt like your sidekick. I only mattered because of you." He looked down again, not knowing or caring if he had said too much. The night had left them both in its shadow, and his mind had cleared of the earlier inebriation.

Harry laughed shortly, but it was not a pleasant sound. "You envied me? I wanted nothing more than to be you, with a family that loved me and was really mine. I didn't ask to be The Boy Who Lived."

"No one ever said you did, mate."

"Didn't they?" His gaze met Ron's for the first time. "They didn't have to say it. All those years, they thought I was cracked up. Maybe the _avada kedavra_ had addled my brains. They thought I wanted fame, glory. I just wanted Voldemort to die." He sighed. "Sorry, mate. You'd think I'd be better at keeping that to myself by now. We're talking about your problems here, not mine."

Ron shook his head, a hint of a rueful smile on his lips. "Can't you see how similar they are now, Harry? It was you or Voldemort who had to die. It's me or Hermione and Snape. If I don't die for them there'll be 'mass destruction' the Prophecy said. I don't feel like I have much of a choice."

Harry nodded empathetically. "Until I listen to the Prophecy about Voldemort, I just wanted revenge on him. I always felt like it would be Dumbledore who finished him off in the end, though. I always felt like he would be there to protect me. It was our war, but I was just another solider. All of the sudden, I felt exposed. I knew it was Him or Me. I couldn't hide anymore. I felt trapped because there was no choice."

"I just always thought there would be something more for me, some purpose, something that would set me apart. I never thought it would be this, though. I never thought I would have to die for it."

"Do you think it's worth dying for?"

He sighed. "I would have done anything for Hermione until today. I loved her. I don't know how I feel anymore. Confused. I don't want to be a part of this, but I can't escape. Like you said, there's no choice. If I let it go, how many will suffer because of it? What does mass destruction mean? Why did it have to be me? Why did she have to change? Why couldn't she just once take a step away from what's true?"

"The same reason you can't. You wouldn't be able to live with yourself."

"I always loved her." His eyes grew softer, farther away. "Deeper than bones."

"I know."

"At least she loved me too. Once." He sounded close to tears again, and stood up.

Harry followed suit. "Maybe she still does, but she can't. It wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be allowed."

"Maybe." Ron walked around the room, straightening the furniture as Harry excused himself to use the restroom. He felt less pain now, more numbness. People used words like love so lightly, but he felt so deeply, only for her. The memories repeated again and again as he moved to pick up the discarded sheets. He couldn't lie to himself, couldn't lie to her. He had loved her always, even though he had known for so long that they were through. The plans he made had always had her in them. Somewhere. He tried to keep her in the background, but she would inevitably come swimming into view. It had always been he that had been in the background of his own life.

Deftly, he flipped the sheets over the bed, trying to smooth them out, make them right again. The hole remained, though, refusing to be mended with a flick of his wand. He felt like crying as he looked at it, knowing that it had been torn apart in less than a moment and would never be perfect again.


End file.
